It was either you or the werewolf
by Brobdingnagian Pseudonym
Summary: Sherlock may not be the teaching type. But with a murderer on the loose, how could he resist? I may not be a wizard. But he said 'could be dangerous' and... well... What choice did I have? -Title may change-
1. Chapter 1

**Don't you hate it when you spend half an hour revising a chapter, only to forget to save and accidentally upload the unrevised version? Yeah so do I.**

**I though having Sherlock as a teacher would be really interesting and was a little disappointed when all I could find was a one-shot. So, I decided I'd write something up myself. I hope you enjoy!**

**This takes place during Prisoner of Azkaban. So, unfortunately I'll be displacing Lupin. But maybe I'll be able to squeeze him in somewhere.**

* * *

"Sherlock. There's an owl on the mantelpiece." I say as I pour myself a cup of tea. This may not be the oddest thing to have ever appeared there, but it's definitely in the top five. The impatient way it taps it's talons unnerves me. It's bound to leave a scratch in the wood and how the hell am I going to explain that to Mrs. Hudson.

"John, your skills of observation are improving at an _astounding_ rate." He condescends never looking up from whatever he was doing at the back of the fireplace. I would question that, but Sherlock's antics are currently eclipsed by the rather grumpy _owl_ on the mantelpiece. The owl continues it's tapping.

"The owl looks like it's waiting for something."

"If this goes on, I might have to find a new profession." Sherlock stands, counting out a few foreign looking coins and dropping them into the pouch on the bird's foot.

"Y-you're _paying _the owl." It nods it's head in a polite bow and flies out the open window. Sherlock picks up the small green envelope which the owl was previously standing on.

Wait. Did the owl bring that in? Did the owl just deliver a letter? What is he bribing owls to do his bidding now? Did his homeless network prove inefficient?

"Perhaps teaching would be a better career path, now that you've obviously surpassed me in every way." He opens the letter, making me sound stupid while ignoring what I'm saying simultaneously. He takes a moment to scan over the letter, before tossing it onto the table with an amused scoff and sweeping out of the room.

I sit back in my chair and take another sip of tea. Of course he won't tell me why there are owls delivering letters to us. Why should he? It's not as if it's anything out of the ordinary. And of course he'll only answer my questions as he pleases. Because his majesty can't be bothered to explain things to a mere mortal. It's not as if I've saved his life or anything.

"John, pack your bags. We'll be leaving Baker street tomorrow." He said as he sweeps back into the room fully dressed a few moments later. He stares at me as if he supposed to follow his every command without the slightest explanation. I shot him the 'I'm not moving from this spot until you explain, you arrogant dick.' look and he shot me the 'silly mortal and your need to understand but inability to think' look. Sherlock shoved a sheet of pape- parchment? under my nose. I read over it as he goes on talking, getting more confused by the second.

"The position was only offered to me, but I'm sure I can convince them to put you into muggle studies... Or divination. Maybe astronomy. Something irrelevant like that. Whatever happens, we'll have to get you fitted for wizards robes." Sherlock rambles on as he dons his trademark coat and scarf. "I have to get Mycroft to do a quick kidnapping. He won't meet with me unless he thinks it's his idea, the fat bastard. I'll be back in an hour"

I give up on trying to understand what he had said, or even whatever the hell the letter in my hand meant. Instead I shot a wordless shout of general confusion at Sherlock before he shut the door.

"Oh, I guess I must've forgotten to tell you." Sherlock said darkly from the doorway, his back turned to me. He whirled around and walked towards me with that infuriating strut that makes him look like he doesn't have feet. When he reaches me, he clears his throat to increase the dramatic tension. "I'm a wizard, John."

* * *

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_ Due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, we at Hogwarts are in desperate need of a defense against the dark arts professor. While there were many other more qualified candidates, all of them refused the job in fear of the jinx on the position. This, coupled with the recent news that convicted murderer Sirius Black is on the loose and likely after our ever-so-popular student Harry Potter, has reduced the list to two. While I am firmly against the idea of having one such as yourself within five miles of small children, the other option was a werewolf._

_ I understand that you have been cut off from the wizarding world for many years, so I have taken the liberty to jot down the unfortunate fate of our previous defense against the dark arts professors._

_Professor Systole- Disappeared at the end of her first year. Was never seen again._

_Professor Greening- Had a mental break and was let go after having claimed that he had become a tree._

_Professor Quirrel- Was possessed by Voldemort to do his bidding and was left to die once he proved useless._

_Professor Lockhart- Lost his memory during an incident with a basilisk and is a permanent resident at St. Mungo's._

_ We will be awaiting your reply by owl._

_ Severus  
Snape_

_P.S. I want to make it perfectly clear that you were my LAST choice for this position._

* * *

**Yes, I did make up Professor Systole and Greening. Just two professors going mad or dying just wasn't ominous enough.**

**I'm thinking of making Snape and Sherlock old friends from Hogwarts. Not _actual _friends but the sort of situation where Sherlock would _act _friendly so he could cheat off of him. Like Sherlock and Molly.  
**

**This chapter has been revised. Nothing major, just grammar checking. **


	2. Chapter 2

**There's a long cracky conversation that doesn't have much to do with the story, but I couldn't bring myself to take it out.**

**Also, this chapter was going to be longer, but making it longer would take too long. So I cut it more or less in half.**

* * *

I'm gasping as I try to keep up with my long-legged partner in crime solving on the train platform. Not due to actual physical fatigue (I've gotten very used to chasing my gazelle of a flatemate through crowded streets and high traffic, over rooftops and under rat infested bridges, thank you very much.) But because my brain is using up all of the oxygen in my body trying to come to terms with the fact that I just _ran through a wall_ and came through the other side uninjured.

And of course Sherlock never _told _me that I had to run through the wall. He just strutted through it and expected me to figure out for myself if the enchantment or whatever would work for me. For all I knew, the enchantment only works for wizards. Or it requires some incantation. Or it had a time limit. But being the good little soldier that I am, I shut my eyes and sprinted at the wall, shoulder first.

There's still a part of me that's expecting to open my eyes and find myself on the ground with a concussion, trying to find the answer to the question 'what the bloody hell were you thinking, running at stone walls like that?'. I shake it off as I step onto the train.

"John, hurry up." He gestures to me as I struggle to manuver with all of my luggage. I know for a fact that Sherlock packed at least twice as much as me, yet he carries his bag as if it weighs no more than a purse. When he told me that 'flatmates should know the worst about eachother' he should've mentioned that he's bloody Mary Poppins. Honestly, it would it have been too hard just to tell me? Maybe bring it up over breakfast the day after I moved in 'hey, by the way. I'm a part of a faction of the human race that broke off a few centuries ago and developed their own secret society right under our noses.' Is that really too much to ask?

"This one's empty." My train of thought comes to abrupt stop when Sherlock came to a halt in front of a compartment door. He peeks inside before swinging open the door and floating in like a ghost. I followed after, heaving my gargantuan suitcase up onto the racks. Thankfully, the compartment is empty, so I stretch out halfway across the seats, still gasping just a little.

"Exhausted already? I thought you were in better shape than that." This is one of the many times that I've wanted to tear that deep, velvety voice out of his throat and set it on fire. I took a deep breath.

"I just walked. Through. A wall." I say slowly and dangerously. So maybe he might get the point that if he says another word in that condescening 'thou art mortal' tone of voice, I will _throw_ him. "This morning, we went shopping for magical teaching aides. Then, you had me fitted for _wizard's_ robes-which look ridiculous, by the way. And just a minute ago, I walked through a wall."

He opens his mouth, but before he was able to give me a reason to punch one of those luminescent eyes out of his head, the door opens again. Three kids come into the compartment, and whatever Sherlock is about to say turns into an annoyed groan.

"Oh, sorry. All the others are full." A boy with glasses smiles sheepishly as they load their luggage on the racks and take their seats. I smiled politely scoot over to make more room.

"I can't believe you didn't get in worse trouble. You should be more careful..." They whisper amongst themselves, probably about some prank. They were actually an adorable little group, glasses, redhead and the girl. Watching them talk reminded me of my old school days. Making trouble, cheating on tests, pretending to pay attention during class... god, my teachers hated me.

Sherlock has bundled himself into an displeased sulk by the window. No doubt realizing he'll have to deal with _children_ for the rest of the year.

"Who're they?" Redhead jerks his head in our direction. Girl elbows him in the ribs and tells him off for being rude. Redhead mutters an apology under his breath at girl's command. If they don't end up a couple by the end of the year, Sherlock is a decent human being.

"Please excuse my friend's manners. But are you two new professors?" I really wasn't sure how to answer that. But before I could even try, Sherlock unfurled instantly from sulky Holmes to Holmes, the god of knowledge.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, I'll be your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for the year." He's using the voice he usually uses on Molly. I call it the 'your heart belongs to me' voice. He's pairing it with the 'you're lucky to be in my presence' demeanor. The poor girl didn't have a chance. Hell, I think redhead is drooling a bit. "And the is John Watson. My cat." Cat? I am not a-... I quickly looked down at my hands, just in case he spelled me when I wasn't looking.

"I'm NOT your cat."

"Don't be silly, of course you are."

"No, I'm not- What are you-How-Why are we even arguing about this"

"Well, they wouldn't allow you as a muggle studies professor, so the only other way you'd be allowed in would be if you were my toad, cat, owl or husband. And since you weren't there to decide. I decided for you."

"Oh, so you'd rather have me as a cat than a husband?"

"Well, I figured as 'not gay' as you are, you'd do better as a cat."

"I would make a wonderful husband. You would be lucky to have me as a husband. You know what, nevermind. You don't deserve me as a husband."

"So, you'll agree to be my cat?"

"Yes, but don't expect me to act like one." There was a long moment of silence as I remembered that there were other people in the room. They all stared at us with confused awe and I stared back with confused surprise. Then I turned back to Sherlock who was turning back to me. I could tell that he was just remembering other people existed too. Soon we were both laughing so hard we were tearing up.

"Tha- that was... the most ridiculous conversation we've ever had." I managed to eek out as I regained composure. The trio of students just exchanged worried and confused glances amongst themselves. Sherlock nodded, straightening his clothing.

"I'm not sure it beats the one we had after the taxi driv..." He trails off as the temperature of the room fell. The chill sinks through my bones, strangling my heart. Despite the bracing cold, I was surrounded by the desert again. Bullets flying like an infestation, bombs falling like rain and _so much blood._ A black cloud fazed through the train window, it's hands encroaching further into my mind. Skeletal, with chunks of meat still rotting off of them. But it drifted past me, reaching for glasses beside me. I jumped up and tried to fend it off, although so much pain is shooting through my shoulder I can't move my arm. I can feel the blood running down it. The bullet still buried in the muscle. But what am I if not a soldier?

The heavy cloud is shoved back. There's a burst of light and another and it's gone. I think I hear someone shouting. Yes, there was someone shouting above the screaming of all the dying soldiers.

_Don't touch... Don't you dare touch him. Expecto Patronum! Expecto. Patronum! _


	3. Chapter 3

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

**I got a little stuck on this one. So it took a little longer than the last. I'm still not completely happy with it, but it works.**

* * *

Everything after that is hazy. Dull and monotone. All sound slipped through my ears barely heard. Someone grabs me. Chanting my name. There's still some light from the flash clinging to his hair. He shakes me. I feel like a sack of rocks. I try to tear him off, but my arms are so heavy. I try to tell him I'm fine or ask him what happened but it's so hard to speak. It takes effort to even remember his name.

"John! John, I'm sorry I was too slow. John!" The tone of desperation sounds so foreign in his voice. He's never desprate. He's definitely never sorry. He's  
_Amazing  
__Brilliant  
__Fantastic  
__SHERLOCK_

"Sh... lock. Sherlock, what was-" The air clears, but I still feel so heavy. I search around for glasses, but I can't see him from the floor. Floor? I must've fell. I feel like I'm being pulled into the ground, even breathing is tiring. "Glasses. He aright?"

"Yes yes, he's completely fine. God, you-you insufferable...GAH! Stay here." He darted up off the floor and ran out of the compartment, I could hear him shouting for chocolate down the corridor. Slowly, I hauled myself up to a seat. Redhead was half paralyzed in his seat while girl was fussing over glasses, who had passed out but looked alright now. I sighed in relief, leaning against the window and shutting my eyes.

"John, eat this." Sherlock shoved something squirming between my lips. "You too, Potter."

I sputtered and spat it out, too tired to open my eyes to see what it the hell it could've been. Sherlock pried my mouth open and forced the squirming thing into my mouth. Chocolate hit my tongue and the squirmy thing became less squirmy and more melty. The pressure on my body lifted and breathing became easier.

"What was- what... happened?"

"Dementors. Prison guards that feed of the souls of the living. Nearly sucked yours out. Chocolate helps recovery of the soul. Have another." He tosses a small brown frog to me. I gawk at the confectionery critter as it hopped around, before tentatively biting at it's arm. The taste of chocolate reminded me of winter afternoons, when I was a kid. Me and Harry would come in from playing in the snow and huddle around the fire, stealing chocolates from our Christmas stockings.

"Did the rest of you feel that?" Redhead muttered, terrified from his corner. Sherlock falls into the seat across from me, fidgeting uncomfortably and scowling. "Like... you'd never be happy again?" Then he got and and paced around the limited space of the compartment.

Glasses looked distraught. "There was so much screaming. Everyone was... I... Mr... Watson? Thank you, I think you saved my life." I tried a polite smile, but as I felt it failing, Sherlock started on a vicious tirade.

"Oh shut up. He didn't save your life, he just foolishly endangered his own. Dementors are intangible creatures which extract souls by proximity and intent. Physical matter and bodies are nothing to them. Putting yourself in front of it's prey only makes for two equally dead victims. You might as well have thanked him for throwing himself off a rooftop." He barked, his robes fluttered around him like the wings of an aggravate bird as he paced up and down, up and down. Glasses shrunk back into his seat.

"Sherlock. Sit down." I ordered weakly. He turns to me to protest, but sighs and resigns himself to half-sprawling quietly in his seat. Twitching like an unhappy crow."They're just children, you... bad person." I groaned. I felt like I would after staying up for four days for one of Sherlock's long-term investigations. Except without the satisfaction of... being on one of Sherlock's long-term investigations. There was a long period of stormy silence.

"But... Professor Holmes... that flash of light. That was you, wasn't it? You grabbed it, I saw you." Girl spoke up in an odd mixture of awe and defiance. Sherlock rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers against his kneecap in agitation.

"It was a charm. You have to use something intangible against something intangible." He chewed out the consonants like a mouth full of gum. Girl looked like she was about to ask another question.

"Bu-"

"Shut up. I don't have the patience to spoon feed complex theories to idiots right now." Girl sits back and seethes silently. Sherlock was in one of his worst moods. If she had said anything more, it would've ended in tears. Luckily she didn't push it. He shifts to his thinking pose, staring blankly at the still icy window. The children all huddle together and whisper to themselves. Suddenly, Sherlock bursts out of his thinking pose and pins Glasses to his seat with his eyes alone.

"Sirius Black is after you." He states, factually. Glasses probably can't see it from his seat, but a maniacal grin is starting to grow on the right side of his face. I'm almost scared for him. "But you've already guessed that, haven't you Harry?"

"...How do you-?" His questions are immediately cut off by Sherlock. Apparently his talent for deduction has nothing to do with being a wizard if even other wizards are surprised by it. I'm just curious who this 'Serious Black' is. The name sounds somewhat familiar.

"Oh, please. Everyone knows who the famous Harry Potter is. The way you fidgeted with your bangs gave it away. Sirius's probable interest in you was obvious. He works for Voldemort, Voldemort hates you. Therefore, the enemy of my friend is my enemy as well. It was also mentioned in a letter." The letter! That's where I remember that name from. Voldemort, on the other hand, is a completely unfamiliar name. But from the way Redhead and Girl flinched, I can guess that he's also a criminal.

Sherlock continued on without so much as a breath."But then it was only a theory that maybe he might finish you off if he has the time and opportunity. Now it's a fact of imminent danger. For the dementor to be so interested in you to not only go after you, but to threaten the life of someone unrelated in the process, you must be directly involved with Sirius Black. You might be the sole reason he broke out of Azkaban. Oh, this is... Wonderful!" All during his speech, the grin slowly spread across his face until the end, when he erupts into the sort of maniacal laughter you would expect from the mouth of a dragon gleefully feasting on roasted knight.

"Another insane professor." I hear Redhead mutter under his breath. I had to agree.


	4. Chapter 4

**This is sort of a two in one chapter. I found a good stopping point for a chapter, the realized it was waaay too short, so I continued as if it was the next chapter. I hope it feels alright to you.**

* * *

I don't think I'll ever be able to wrap my head around the fact that right here, right now in this moment. I am eating a banquet in a castle among hundreds of wizards... and a giant. Who is also a wizard. I feel like a kid watching a magic show. Except the magic is real and it's not a show. All the moving pictures and floating candles and... magic is just everyday life for these people. It's all so amazing, I've almost forgotten the damenter attack on the train.

The most amazing part is how _normal _everyone is. Despite the giant and the robes and the pumpkin juice and... oh wow that's a ghost, the students looks so... average. Like I could see any of these kids around london any day of the week. I half expected some of them to be green and warty. When Sherlock first told me about being a wizard. I thought maybe that would account for his weirder traits. Maybe he'd be considered normal among other wizards. But as I watch all the students laughing and joking, I realize that I couldn't imagine a young Sherlock among them.

As normal as all the students seem, the teachers are another matter entirely. They ranged from giant to dwarf. There's a man who I could swear is a Gandalf impersonator in his spare time as well as a woman who I suspect is secretly hoarding cats. Perhaps the most normal person at the table, aside from myself and Sh-...myself,is a greasy looking black haired man who keeps shooting dirty looks at Sherlock and I from across the table. Every once and awhile I catch Sherlock shooting menacing grins back him. I'll make sure to aske about him later.

"The one with the beard is Albus Dumbledore, the rather eccentric Headmaster of the school. He keeps a pet Phoenix going by the feather shaped burns on his fingers. Must be in it's rebellious teen years. Also, very gay, not that it matters. Fond of good socks. Passwords all have something to do with candies." Sherlock has been quietly rattling off deductions about the other professors while I ate, just to put his mouth to use and fill time. I was very thankful for this, as this world is so foreign and listening to his deductions has become so familiar.

"The woman with the glasses and the scarves is Trelawney, the divination's professor. A mindless professor for a mindless subject. Oh, she's going to try predicting my death. Maybe I could find a way to predict it right back. If I just mention her fondness for muggle weed, she'll believe anything I say. Deducing things in the future tense could easily be taken for divination. Probably more accurate too." I warily take a sniff of the pumpkin juice. Sherlock claims it's good, but I don't trust the tastes of a man who eats the spaghetti that he keeps next to rat intestines. I take a sip and decide it's a little odd, but not bad.

"Try the chocolate cake, it's the consistency of clouds." He's been doing that all night. Sneaking chocolate frogs into my pockets, getting a spot next to the fondue pot, acting oblivious when various chocolate items appeared on my plate. I'm not angry, of course. He's just worried for my wellbeing. I'm just a tad annoyed that he won't listen to me when I say I feel fine.

"Sherlock, I told you. I'm fine." I say, chuckling just to prove my point. His worrying was almost cute. By almost, I mean it would be cute if he hadn't tried to poison my coffee and use me as a lab rat last time he acted this way.

"Try it anyways."

"No. I've had enough chocolate. You probably need it more than I do. You haven't even bothered pretending to eat."

"You were a centimeter away from being kissed by that dement-" He knows that argument won't work, he's already tried it. He's quickly piecing together a new one. "...How about I cut you a deal. I'll take a bite if you take a bite."

"Hm... not good enough. I'll take a bite if you have a bite and... three biscuits."

"two biscuits and some jam on bread." That sounds reasonable. Nearly half a meal.

"The whole slice?" He nods. "Deal."

I take a bite of the chocolate cake. He was right, it does have the consistency of clouds. After watching Sherlock take his bite, I cut myself a slice and chow down on it while watching Sherlock carry out his end of the deal. Just to be sure he doesn't weasel out of it.

"I told you it was good."

"Shut up."

After the banquet, Sherlock and I were eager to get to our rooms. For completely different reasons, of course. I wanted to curl up and sleep till noon and Sherlock was keen on... redecorating the place apparently. So it was quite obvious as we were leaving the main hall that neither of us were in any mood to make small talk. And yet, here we are. Half way up a moving staircase, having a getting to know you chat with a man who clearly has a grudge against shampoo.

"I see you've found yourself a new toy, Sherlock." The greasy black-haired man pulled a foul face at us. The medical man in me couldn't help but to see his uncomfortable stance and the strain in his voice that usually accompanies severe constipation.

"Ah, if it isn't my old schoolmate Severus." Sherlock said with a scowl. He pivoted on his heel with a flourish of his perfectly tailored midnight blue robes. God, he looks like he rehearsed that for precisely this moment. He planted a hand on my shoulder. "Severus, this is Watson. My cat. John, this is Severus Snape. An old... _friend_ of mine." I pull on a exasperated smile and held out my hand to be shaken, in a last attempt to be polite. It was left hanging.

"That is not a cat." He says sourly. I take my hand back. "You know very well that muggles are forbidden here, Holmes. It almost seems as if the only reason you brought him was to break the rules. Typical of you."

Sherlock takes a deep breath as he prepares to launch himself into Condescension Mode, Level Anderson. I brace myself for the ride.

"I haven't broken any rules. The rule book allows me to have a cat. But it never specifies what defines a cat. It never stated whether a cat is only an animal of the genus felis, or simply anything which can labeled as a cat. So I took it to mean the latter. It just so happens that John here was born in a the year of the cat according to the chinese zodiac*. So, as he can be labeled as a cat, your precious _rules_ remain unbroken." He says _rules_ the same way a teenager would say _parents. _As if anyone would be stupid to actually take them seriously. I watch Severus stiffen. He's probably thinking that if he can't find a good comeback, he might as well try to look imposing. He's failing miserably at it. Although him and Sherlock are roughly the same height, he stands on a lower stair allowing Sherlock to physically look down him as well as intellectually.

"I see your retreat into the muggle world only made you more insufferable, as I expected." Sherlock smiles at Severus the same way a lion would smile at an antelope.

"And you still have a pathological fear of soap, as I feared."

"Very mature, Holmes." Sherlock turned back on his heel and glided the rest of the way up the staircase. I follow after him, wondering whether he conjured up a breeze just to make his robes billow as he makes his dramatic departure.

"Laterz."

* * *

***There is no cat in the chinese zodiac.**

**I've been on a weird review roller coaster lately. The second chapter got like ten reviews in just a few days which is the most reviews I've gotten for anything, then the third took around a week and a half to get two. So... I'm not really sure what caused that spike and dip. Because both chapters seemed the same quality...**

**Anyways, reviews are most appreciated. Especially constructive critizism. Or destructive critisizm, actually. I'd love to hear what you think. (Also I forgot how to spell critizizm. Are there Zs involved? How many? Should I stick an E in there? I don't know, I'm tired.)**


	5. Chapter 5

I'm writing this from death valley. It's actually very pretty, all purple and blue and swirly. Almost like ice cream. But that might be the dehydration talking. I'm kidding. I have four jugs of water in the car. I was born in ari-freaking-zona. If I didn't know how to deal with the desert by now, I'd change my name to Anderson.

But seriously, it's quite gorgeous out here. I'd recommend anyone to google it.

There'll be more applied cat logic and much more embarrassment on John's part in this one. Also, more of Harry's group!

"Could you explain this 'houses' thing to me? The singing hat wasn't very clear on it." I ask as I jog to keep up with my longlegged flatmate on our way to his first class. I'm both curious and terrified to find out what Sherlock's teaching methods might be. There are two ways this could go. He could either draw upon his skills as an actor and play the part of a wise and understanding teacher, or he can be himself and leave psychological and perhaps physical scars on the poor children.

I keep tripping over my robes as we go through the halls. I don't know why he's in such a hurry, he spent the last hour fully dressed picking dirt out of fingernails with his magic stick thing. If he was really so keen on being on time he was fully capable of leaving earlier.

He sighed. As if it explaining would be _such_ a burden to him. But does so anyways without skipping a step or missing a syllable."Every student is put into one of four houses based on their soul or personality or whatever. Griffindor is for the brave, loyal, and mind-numbingly stupid. Ravenclaw is for the smart. Slytherin is for the cunning and ambitious. Hufflepuff is for the 'hard-working and kind-hearted', basically the soft and useless. Whatever house you end up in determines your schedule, what table you eat at, where you sleep, what quidditch team you play for, so on and so forth. It's actually a quite efficient way to organize a school." So, the hat.. was like a mind-reading thing that decided which house you're suited for, and each house consists of more or less like-minded people which you would fit in best with. I think I'm getting the hang of magic logic.

"Huh. So I guess you were in ravenclaw." Sherlock snorts at my guess. I'm not sure how I could be wrong. Smart is practically Sherlock's job description. It was the obvious conclusion.

"I'm a Slytherin, actually. The hat tried to put me in ravenclaw but I shut it up and told it off for being such an idiot*. I'd look terrible in blue and bronze." I realized he was wearing different robes today. Deep green velvet with silver embroidery, vaguely reflecting one of the four banners in the great hall. Yet, next to him, the banner would look like a cheap birthday party decoration. I think it's ridiculous that he chose a house because of it's colors, but I have to admit he does look fantastic.

We were rapidly approaching the heavy wooden doors that marked the defense against the dark arts classroom. At the door, Sherlock stopped me. Whispering a little tip into my ear before I could open a door. "This class is slytherin and griffindor. They've been rivals for centuries. Nearing outright enemies. There will be an air of competition or even hostility. Especially hostility." With that said, Sherlock flicked his stick and the doors flew open. He strides down the middle isle of the quickly quieting class like a king to his throne. I follow after feeling like a stupid tourist driving through thick traffic only to realize I've driven into a coronation procession.

"I am Sherlock Holmes. I will be your Defense against the Dark Arts professor for the year. You may all call me Sherlock, Professor, or Professor Sherlock. Never refer to me as Mr., Sherly, 'Lock, or Holmes, or you'll asked to leave the class permanently." He says dead seriousness, standing behind a regal looking wood pillar. I now understand that when he was talking about redecorating, he wasn't talking about our room. The entire classroom had been decorated to look like an expanded, tidier version of 221b. Sherlock's cow skull and skull painting have both been mounted onto the walls, all of his random knicknacks were sitting on wooden shelves, and his second best friend was sitting in it's place of honor on the mantlepiece. There were even several stacks of paper jack knifed to any available surface, one of which was conveniently stabbed into the surface of his podium. The only things missing from the replication were a few pieces of furniture and the bulletholes. I awkwardly stood next to the podium, unsure of where else to go.

"This is John Watson, the class pet cat. He is very calm and quite child friendly, so don't be afraid to give him a scratch behind the ears." His fingers run through my hair, petting me like... well, a pet. I wanted to protest, I really did. But god, his hands are magic.

"I hate you." I muttered as his fingers danced over my scalp like miniature ballet dancers wearing massage therapists on their feet. I could feel him smirk through his hand.

"Listen for gossip." He whispers as he discreetly directs me to a nice cushy armchair near a window as he started up roll call. I settle in to the sun-toasted cushions and quietly observe the class. It was split into two sides, Slytherin in green on the left, Griffindor in red on the right. I had a better view of the gryffindors, as I was sitting on the right side of the room. I took note of the students as their names where called.

In the slytherin class, nearly everyone gravitates towards a boy named Malfoy. Mean looking kid. He sits between two burly kids, passing notes around and pretending to faint. Several kids in the griffindor group looked ready to punch him. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley I recognised as glasses, redhead and girl from the train. They were whispering amongst themselves about Sherlock. Basically whether he was to be trusted and how much of a nutjob he is. Hermaninny is set on giving him a chance, even if he is wierd. Ron claims she's just saying that cause he's pretty. Potter is wary but feels that they should give us some credit for saving their lives. Then a small boy named Neville chirps up saying Sherlock seems like a second Snape. Then laments that he's not going to survive the year. Poor thing. He looked like he expected something to explode when his name was called.

"Unfortunately, the equipment and textbooks I've ordered for the year have yet to arrive. So we'll be going by ear today." Sherlock says as he starts the class. He picked up a large book off a shelf, then dropped it to quiet the class. "Right. First lesson, every single one of you is an idiot. Do not delude yourselves into thinking you're any smarter than the common field rat. No amount of knowledge could save you from dark magic, as you are too stupid to apply that knowledge." Hermy gaped, looking as if she was going to storm out. Everyone else looked confused. "But fortunately for you, dark wizards are just as imbecilic."

"You, with the arachophobia." He called out Ron. "What would be your first move in a duel with... Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"Uh...I don- expelliarmus?" He muttered after Hermoany whispered it to him.

"Granger, I know you're eager to show off, but if you're going to cheat at least _try_ to be discreet. Wrong. You call her fat and punch her hard in the throat when she charges." He drew his wand, pointing it at the rolling blackboard against the wall. It rolled behind him and started displaying notes in Sherlock's handwriting.

"You see, the best things to do in a duel are

1) Be unexpected

2) Aim for their weak points

And this only applies to life and death duels against dark wizards

3) Break any and all rules whenever possible" As he said these he struted around the edges of class, discreetly studying the students as they fished out their parchment and pens.

"All wizards and witches, dark or otherwise, are accustomed to cooking, cleaning, bathing, fighting, eating, and wiping their ass...cots with magic. As a result, most wizards are physically weak and unused to hand-to-hand combat. Physical fighting is unexpected in a magic duel, and so it is every wizards weak point. It will ensure that even if your wand is in a thousand pieces and on fire, you will not be sitting ducks. Now... How about a demonstration?" He concludes his speech as he passes in front of his podium again.

"Dear John here is armed with nothing but his extensive knowledge of the human body and an _fine_ physique. I am armed with a magic wand and knowledge of 78 spells, charms, curses and combinations of the like. Who do you believe will win?" I stand reluctantly from my seat. Sherlock gestures to a small white x on the floor as he moves to a similar one on the opposite end of the room. This is a bad bad idea. He's going to shoot some weird death sparkles at me and I'm going to have to not die. How do spells even work? Is it going to spray or spit or just... happen?

"Sherlock, this isn't a good idea." He pretends he doesn't hear me.

"Neville, call out 'ding' whenever it suits you." Neville squeaks. "John, I'm the one who told Rose you thought she was annoying." I'm seeing red. Blood red with little black splotches. I really liked Rose, she was clever and gorgeous and didn't make jokes about me and Sherlock. I'm going to kill that man and feed his corpse to a banana slug.

"DING!" Neville yelps. Sherlock points a thing at me and shouts another thing, causing a bolty thing to spring at me, but I dodge to the side. I charge into his side and tackle him to the ground. He shouts something else and another thing sweeps past my head. I wrench the stick out of his hand and pin him down with my knee in his chest.

"John, that's enough." Still angry with him, I gave him a good solid punch to the face. "John, I ca..can't breathe..." I reluctantly let up, moving off him and getting up off the floor. Sherlock pops up like a spring, dusting himself off as if he had simply tripped. In just a few seconds, he looked just as composed as before we started. Well, aside from the large bruise forming on his left cheek. "So, for the next week I'll be teaching you idiots how to do that. Any objections?"

*I think I might write up a one-shot about exactly how this occured.

Since I've started this chapter, I drove through a tree, dipped my feet into the ocean, stood inside a living hollow tree, and saw a herd of stoners grazing on weed in their natural habitat. So sorry if it took awhile.

Reviewers, unite!- I've got Sherly's attitude towards Hermie, Snape and John down pretty well. But I'm not sure how to work Harry and Ron. Review me with how you'd think they'd get along.

Ok, that cut off was a little weird, but it was the best stopping point I could find.


	6. Chapter 6

**So, I finally bought prisoner of azkaban to use as a reference! Because, unlike most people I have not memorized every book in the series... Or even finished all of them. (My dad feels threatened by school children waving around sticks) So from here on out, events will line up much better to the book. You're welcome.**

**Whoops. I just realized I mixed up the classes. So the first day is potions and defense. Divination, transfiguration and magical creatures will be on the second day. So sorry for the inconsistency.**

**I'm in the weird position where I'm looking forward to start a chapter, but I have no idea how to get the ball rolling. Hmm... let's see...**

**Ok. I think I got it!**

* * *

I knew I was right in fearing for the student's lives. Sherlock had deduced which ones hated each other the most and paired them up accordingly. Then he gave them a brief lesson on how to punch and dodge and let them have at it. Of course he forbid head shots, groin shots and the like, but forbidding can only do so much. They honestly look like they're going to kill each other. I've been keeping a keen eye out, just in case.

"Stop!" The class slowly tapered off into silence. "That was merely practice. Just to give you a feel for physical combat. And show you that people are unpredictable and will always be searching for your weak points just as you should be searching for theirs. Just keep in mind that in a real fight, there will be nothing keeping you or your opponents from taking headshots, groinshots or attacking with teeth, nails, and rotting corpses. I want you to use that to your advan-"

"But, isn't that a little... immoral?" A gyrffindor piped up, cutting him off. Sherlock's attention snaps to the boy, and the poor kid realizes he's made a terrible mistake. He takes long, slow strides to the boy until he's standing in his shadow.

"It _is_ immoral. Practically the definition of immoral. But against the likes of a death eater, morals should be the last thing on your mind as they'll do everything in their power to use them against you. If given the chance, a death eater will chop off the head of your beloved senile grandfather and use it to bash in yours. If your not able to do the same, you are at a severe disadvantage. I'm not teaching you to be role model witches and wizards, I'm teaching you to be living people when someone else is set on making you otherwise. Morals do you no good when you're dead." He whirls away, leaving the boy pale as a ghost. I have half a mind to give Sherlock a piece of it. They're only children! "Five points from Gryffindor for interrupting."

"Alright, that's enough for today. Homework for this week will be fifteen push-ups and twenty crunches. And by push-ups I mean straight kneed, nose to the ground push-ups. None of this semi, girly push-up nonsense." The class groan and all scattered off to gather their things. Several of them gingerly prod at their newly acquired bruises while others boast of their best punches. I sigh in relief as I decide that none of them were seriously injured. "Ronald, don't bother thinking it I'll know if you skip out. Leon, stop complaining you're not even bruised. Amy, at least have the decency to insult me out of earshot, and learn how to rhyme. Ten points from Slytherin. Class dismissed!" Those who had been called out flinch, gape and gibber a bit and flee like bats out of hell. I should really have a long talk with him about toning down the intimidation. Maybe slip a sleeping draught in his tea one morning a teach the class myself, just to give the poor kids a break.

"Harry." The boy is already halfway out the door, whispering about Sherlock's insane speech and whether or not he should be reported. "Harry, I need to speak to you."

Harry and his friends paused.

"What does he want now?" Ronald whispers loudly as Harry walks up to Sherlock's desk. "I wouldn't trust him. He's crazy. Remember the train?"

"Ron, he _saved_ Harry on the train." Hermon replied.

"...Doesn't make him any less crazy."

"If you must stay and gossip, must you be so loud about it?" Sherlock's voice rumbles past Harry and across the room to Hurminnie and Ron.

Harry approaches the desk meekly. Trying to make himself look innocent. Like a boy who's done nothing wrong trying not to look like he's done anything wrong, which he hasn't. "Professor Sherloc-"

"No." He scowls, as if he had just bit into a licorice jellybean. Harry, lacking any other alternative, is trying very hard to disintegrate. "Sounds too old. I thought it'd be sophisticated, but it's just antiquated. Better stick to Sherlock." He clicks the 'ck' and let the room fall into a viscous silence.

He breaks it slowly, easing into an ominous tone like a film fades to black. "You fainted on the train when the dementor came. The entire school is talking about it. As we speak, Draco is spreading around new rumors about other times you may be liable to faint. Telling stupid jokes, mimicking, swooning, making up nicknames..."

"Yeah. I know. I was there. I was in fact the person who fainted. I have ears too, if you haven't noticed. And eyes." Harry all but snaps. Eyes burning holes into Sherlock's. Or at least making an admirable effort. I think I may have seen Sherlock's eyebrow twitch.

"I meant no insult, Harry. In fact, I was offering you a chance to be sure that it would never happen again." Harry looked confused. "You saw what I did on the train. I could teach it to you. It won't be easy, but I have no doubt that you're capable of it."

"... Why? What's in it for you?" Smart kid. Sherlock isn't exactly one to do things out of the goodness of his heart. "I don't really know you, but you're a Slytherin. And Slytherins don't do people favours just because. What would you get out of it?"

Sherlock smirked, also surprised by the boy's newfound courage. He leaned in closer over the desk. "There _will_ be another Dementor attack, Harry. I'm offering you a way to defend yourself from it. It's up to you whether or not to accept it."

"No. You're doing this for your own benefit, not mine. I won't be manipulated for your entertainment or whatever." Very smart boy. I smile at Sherlock's defeated face as Harry leaves the room. I don't get to see it often and I enjoy it every time I do.

"He'll be back." he shrugs and rests his heels on the desktop.

* * *

**Yep. I made a very potter referrence. Well, making a very potter referrence, I'm planning on making it a running thing. Because who actually pronounced Hermione's name correctly before watching the movies.**

**I accidentally started the next chapter first until I realized that it was supposed to come later. So, the next one is going to be either earlier than usual or longer. But either way, it's gonna be a good one. It's going to focus much more on John than Sherlock. Which is so much of a relief. It might be fun to write Sherlock, but he's goddamn irritating as hell. And he hogs the spotlight like you have no idea.**

**So.. here comes Johnny!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Shout out to Laverock: Really? SPAG errors? Oh pooh. If you're talking about the change in tenses in chapters 1 and 3 it's because I was still deciding on how to write the thing and had yet to correct them. Which I've already worked on. Otherwise, I'll start reading these over more thoroughly before posting. Thank you, though. If there's any other specific glaring errors, don't be afraid to point them out.**

**A/N**

**Whoops! I lied. I spent all of the time it would've taken to write this chapter to instead fix the grammar errors on this story, work on 'sullied isn't broken'****,**** start up another silly crossover, and sew a corset. But this one's reeeally cute. So I hope that makes up for the unnecessary delay.**

**There's a subtle hitchhiker's reference in there. Lets see if you can find it.**

* * *

After Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead, I promised myself that I would never again be surprised by anything Sherlock did. Of course, I broke that promise dozens of times. Like when he got engaged to that waitress just to solve a case. Or when he had framed Anderson for his own murder last april fools. Or when he told me he's a wizard. Or when he actually apologizes for something. But now I don't get surprised as easily and I have a different reaction to being surprised than I did before he threw himself over a building. Before, I'd just freeze, maybe gasp or shout depending on what the surprise was. Now, I have the knee-jerk reflex of punching him in the face. I knocked him out cold when he showed up at my door four months after The Fall. I dislodged a tooth when he revealed that he's a wizard, then gave him a black eye when he put it back with magic. I give him a nasty bruise everytime he apologizes for something. (Which probably isn't the best way to react, but his apologies usually mean he's trying to manipulate me into something.) Needless to say, over the last year, he's become quite the expert at applying concealer. I also get the dirtiest looks when I take Sherlock to the hospital with a broken nose and he tells the nurses that I hit him because he apologized for forgetting my birthday.

But none of that has much of anything to do with my current position. Because I'm not surprised. No, I'm more... I'm not sure what I am actually. I think I might be more confused than anything. Anyways, what I think I mean is... I've lost my grip on reality, and am seriously considering losing my mind.

Sherlock doesn't have any classes to teach today, so he's been experimenting. Except instead of his harmless little chemistry concoctions, he's been working with more magical substances. Now, I wouldn't have minded in slightest what he did to entertain himself, if only he had kept his potions to himself. But he demanded that I be his tester. I tried to dissuade him, but he refused to take 'no' for an answer. So I thought it would be best for the both of us if I took a stroll around the castle.

Which brings me to my current issue. I'm hopelessly lost and arguing with paintings. That in itself is pretty manageable, as I had come to terms with talking paintings just a few hours after encountering one. But what's really infuriating is that all of the paintings, who I'm convinced are perfectly capable of helping me, are ignoring me. It's quite obvious, since most of them are talking to themselves about how they don't hear or see someone of my exact description. So I've been shouting at them, one by one, as I wandered through halls and it is so _annoying_

Wait, I think I can hear someone crying nearby. I know it's not a painting. There's a distinct difference between the sound of real humans and paintings. The paintings sound more... painted. I'm not going to pretend I know what I meant by that. I try walking towards it, but the halls echo so much, it's a little hard to tell where it's coming from. Eventually, I turn a corner to find a young boy crying against a window. He's a little chubby, with big ears. The kind of kid you _know _is always being picked on. I think I recognize him from Sherlock's class... Something unfortunate... Neville! I crouch down next to him.

"A-are you alright?" Stupid question, I know. But it was the first thing to come to my mind. It's the polite thing to say. The kid pulls himself together.

"Yeah... I-I was... going to transfiguration, but I-I think I took the wrong staircas- or the staircase went the wrong way- or somehow or another I got lost." He sniffles a little more to himself. There goes my hope for asking directions. Ah well, if I'm going to be hopelessly lost, I might as well not be alone. "It's so easy to get lost and... I'm so clumsy..."

I straighten up and reach out a hand to the boy. "Well, it turns out I'm lost too. So, I can't offer you much help, but I can offer you a bit of company." Neville takes my hand and pulls himself up, smiling sheepishly.

"Thank you." He smiled sheepishly. Mild embarrassment seems to be a permanent state for the kid.

"I don't understand how anyone can find their way around here. What with all of the magic making things complicated." I always considered myself as a man with an impeccable sense of direction. If I make it somewhere once, I can make it back the same way a month later dead drunk. But this place, with it's floating candles and paintings that move frame to frame, twists my mind into knots. As confusing as this place is, it really is amazing. "I'd never believe any of this a week ago..."

"W-what? No..." His eyes shoot wide open in surprise. "You're a... muggle?" He whispers, as if he's afraid someone would hear. I wasn't completely sure what that meant, but I think I may have heard it before. I took a guess.

"That's a... a non-magical person, right?" He gasps, which confirms my guess. I supposed these wizard people don't hang around normal people very often. Maybe revealing that I wasn't one of them was a bad idea.

"Oh wow... I-I don't mean to gawk. But you just look so... normal." I chuckle at his reaction. It's almost exactly my reaction when I first saw all of the students.

"Well, so do you." We turned down a random hallway. The paintings were a little quieter down here.

"What are you doing here? I-I don't mean to be rude, but... muggles don't just stumble into hogwarts."

"I have no idea, actually. Sherlock just dragged me along like he always does. He never actually explains his plans until we're in mortal danger." And he always has some sort of ulterior motive for everything he does. Especially this. He definitely has a plan for bringing me here. All I can do is hope that he just needs me to fetch his pens.

"And... you two are friends?" My first reaction is to say 'of course, he's the best friend I've ever had'. But after a long moment of thinking about mine and Sherlock's relationship, I decide I am, in fact, insane. How else could I explain a friendship with a man who puts me in physical danger, manipulates me into doing his bidding, and outright sabotages my other relationships?

"...He's the best friend I've ever had."

"He's really scary." He mutters, shrinking into a small ball just at the thought.

"Yep. He's a the biggest jerk I've ever known." But living without the bastard is still hell. Despite all the atrocities I've had to deal while living with him, the worst thing he's ever done is jump off a building. "What about your friends?"

We go on chatting idly about friends or the lack of such as we try to find our way in the hopeless maze of corridors. Then we pass a familiar suit of armor and the conversation changes to a much needed informal lesson on how magic works after he told me that the suit of armor probably walked there. Then it shifts to an informal lesson on how electricity works which leads on to movies and t.v. shows and me trying to explain the plot of doctor who.

"Wait but... how do eleven people share two hearts? It doesn't even divide evenly."

"He's not eleven people all at the same time. He's one person tha-" I pause, tilting my head to get a better listen. I think I might've heard a violin. But I can't be sure. "Do you hear something?"

"You mean the violin music?" Neville asks, as if it's been playing the entire time. He notices my questioning look and smiles sheepishly. "Big ears, better hearing."

We rush towards mine and Sherlock's room, guided by the music which is definitely Sherlock. Finally I throw open the door. I felt like I had been lost in a wilderness for days, although it was probably just half an hour. I seriously could've kissed Sherlock...'s violin. But instead I had Sherlock write the poor lost boy a note excusing his tardiness and had him point Neville in the right direction to his next class.

"I'm sure you haven't missed too much. Good luck!" I wave him off and shut the door.

"Looks like you've made yourself a new friend." I turn to find Sherlock looming over me, a mocking smirk on his lips.

"He's a nice boy with an unfortumate sense of direction... and name." The lanky bastard turns back to whatever's boiling in his pot thing with an amused snort.

"You have no idea." I think I hear him mutter. I'm not sure what he thinks I don't know of, even if he did.

* * *

**An awkward stopping point, but it'll do. Well, I hope you liked it! I think it was a little longer than usual. But I don't know.**


	8. Chapter 8

This is basically a gag chapter. Sherly and John are pretty out of character but I just couldn't help myself.

* * *

It must be a saturday. I can't remember what yesterday was and I haven't even opened my eyes let alone looked at a calendar, but it feels like a saturday. I shut my eyes tighter against the early morning light and huddle in deeper under the thick, fluffy blankets. My instincts tell me it's around... seven. Way too early to get up on a weekend. Noon sounds like a good time to drag myself out of bed. I don't think I'll go back to sleep, just laze in the wonderful dreamy haze of saturday mornings for a few hours. I roll into the warm center of what must be a gigantic bed, only to bump into something halfway through. Hmmm... Denise? No, we broke up ages ago. Tall... Renee. It must be. I huddle a little closer, burying my nose in her soft curls. God, she smells delicious. I wrap an arm around her, more of a reflex than anything, and she shifts a little closer. Wait something's... flat...

"SHERLOCK, GET OUT OF MY BED." I kick him out and he wakes on his way to the ground with a yelp. My lazy saturday morning is completely ruined. I'll be spending the rest of my day trying to wash the Sherlock off of me and try to forget that I described any aspect of Sherlock as _delicious_. His cooking isn't even delicious! The sad thing is this isn't the first time that has happened. In fact it's happened so many times, I've had to stop dating tall girls or girls with curly hair because of all the awkward morning situations. But somehow they still keep happening.

"Ahh, my head!" Sherlock groaned from the floor, as if this hasn't happened before.

"Oh please, as if you didn't see that coming" He's the genius, he should've deduced it from the thirteen other times he's crawled into my bed and been viciously thrown out.

"I really don't understand what I've done to deserve being thrown over like a sack of potatoes. You were being very... _comforting_ just a few seconds ago." I cringe at the thought. I'm never using the words comforting or delicious ever again. _Delicious. __**Ugh.**_

"I've told you dozens of times. You're my flatmate. Flatmates don't just crawl into their flatmate's bed while their flatmate is sleeping. Especially when said flatmate has been thrown out of their flatmate's bed and told off all of the times said flatmate had tried to do such." Sherlock lifts himself off the ground and rubs at the base of his neck. He shot me the 'you're forgetting something, you idiot' look.

"John, I know I've called you unobservant before, but I feel I might have to find a better word for your apparent selective blindness. Have you really failed to notice the lack of a second bed in this room?" I'm not sure what point he's trying to make by pointing that out. He could always sleep on the sofa in his office. He'd spend days on the sofa at baker street, I don't see why the one here would be any different. "And the fact that this culture hasn't developed electicity or _central heating._"

Oh no. It's pretty drafty in this giant stone castle, he must've been freezing. It's been at least two days since he's gotten a nights sleep, too. So, exhausted and cold, he climbed in next to me because he didn't have another choice. God, don't I feel awful.

"...Oh shit. Sherlock, I'm sorry. You should've woken me up... so I wouldn't... assume you were..." My attention embarrassedly drifts to the door, which is obviously much smaller than the bed I was currently sitting on. My mind wandered quickly away from the awkward current subject and towards the matter of how they got the bed in here and if we could get another one in. "... How would we get a second bed in here?"

"Magic." He says, like a nobel prize winner giving the answer of 2+2. "Like everything else in this castle. Now hurry up and get dressed, there's classes this afternoon. I'll need you for demonstrations and things."

"Sherlock... what shampoo do you use?" I break the heavy silence that descended over the empty classroom. He's angry at me. Not raging angry or even 'I'm never speaking to you again' angry. More of a 'I'm not happy. This is me not being happy' angry. I couldn't blame him, so I beared with his unhappy silence. But I've always been curious how he kept his hair so... well groomed. Getting a whiff of it made the curiousity unbearable and I'm hoping the odd subject would break the tension before class started again.

"...sniffed my hair." He mutters at the other side of the room. He's facing the other way, hunched over a stack of papers. "You sniffed... my hair..."

"I-I didn't mean to! I just..." I trail off as I see Sherlock's shoulders shake from across the room. He-he's not... crying. Is he? The low rumble of his laughter drifts through the room. "... wha-what's so funny?"

"How-... How you convince anyone you're straight is beyond me." He says between sub-sonic chortles, trying to recover from his burst of giggles. Then he throws his head back and launches into another bout. "You-hoo-hoo sniffed my ha-ha-hair."

"Sherlock, for the hundredth time. I actually am straight. I just mistook you for an old girlfriend. Because it was early!" I try desperately to defend myself. But the feeble, one-sided argument is only making Sherlock laugh harder. By now, he's hanging halfway over the armrest of his chair. "And. And. Your skin is really soft! And no man I've ever known has such good smelling hair! Yeah, yeah. I know I'm only making it worse and it's hilarious. Shut up already." He tumbles onto the floor, thrashing like fish with hiccups. Redfaced and embarrassed, I get up from my chair by the window and storm out of the room. Then when I get halfway to the door, I remember how lost I was last time I stormed out of a room. So I stormed back and stood over Sherlock as he laughed himself to asphyxiation.

"I u-hoo-hoose a body wa-ha-hash... infused wi-hith lotus, in case yo-hoo-hoo were wo-hon... dering." His maniacal laughter is dying down slowly to sporadic chuckling. I'm finding it pretty hard to maintain the cold glare I had aimed at Sherlock. He just looks so silly laying flat on the ground, robes twisted up from rolling around, face turning an uncharacteristic shade of pink. I giggle a little, despite myself. "Co-could you help me up, laughing took it out of me."

I grab his outstretched hand and pull him up. "Hey, are you feeling alright?" I asked, while he continued to grin ecstatically.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. I just added a potion I was working on to my morning tea-hee-hee." He burst into another bout of the giggles, nearly toppling back to the ground.

"No no no Sherlock. Don't tell me you've gone back to-"

"Ohohoh John, I forge-he-het how much of a raging muggle you are. You're so good at pretending you aren't an imbecile." He leans on my shoulder, a little oxygen deprived and still letting out the occasion hiccup of laughter. "Potions aren't drugs. Granted, some are dangerous and a rare few are fatal, but they're never taken for the high. No one ever got addicted to a potion and I'm not going to overdose on what I assume is a laughing potion." I nod as he had another minor fit of the giggles, deciding to trust him at his word.

"But it'd sti-hi-hill be a good idea to keep a keen eye on your drink near Snape. Hi-hi-his truth serums are such pa-ha-hain." The advice is just about useless to me. Around a suspicious figure like Snape, who already has a hostile attitude towards Sherlock, (and by extention, me) there wouldn't be much I'd let slip from my attention.

"How do you expect to teach like this?" He can hardly stand up straight for very long. Every few seconds he has to lean against a wall as laughter overtakes him. It'd definitely destroy the dark, mysterious reputation he's built up over the last few days.

"I-hi-hi-hi have no clue-hoo-hoo!" He giggled before collapsing back onto the floor. I sighed and sat back to watch him roll around and laugh himself hoarse. It certainly is a rare sight. I wish I had my phone on my so I could send a quick video to Lestrade. He'd love to add this to his already sizable collection of short films of Sherlock making a fool of himself.

"YOU SNIFFED MY HAIR!" He bellows for the whole school to hear. I sigh, exasperated. It must be a thursday. I could never get the hang of thursdays.


	9. Chapter 9

Some nameless wiseman once said 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' But I must disagree. I'd prefer my enemies to be as far from me as I can manage, as most of them are currently rotting six feet below and I have no inclination to visit them, nor would I enjoy a visit from them. I want to savor the dead-free state of our current home for as long as possible. Sherlock, on the other hand, believes in inviting his enemies over for tea and exchanging flirtatious glances over a live bomb. The corpses he keeps closer then ever. For the particularly challenging murderers, he marks the date of their executions on a special calendar and attends their funerals in his best suit paired with his brightest grin. Sometimes, with the especially tricky murderers, he arranges the funeral and wake himself. I must say, he's suspiciously good at setting up an appropriate and tasteful funeral. They're always very sophisticated and reflective of the more… respectful qualities of the thankfully departed. When I die, I can only hope that Sherlock still lives to plan my funeral and that he puts as much care and thought into it as he did Moriarty's.

As I take my seat to have tea with Sherlock Holmes and Severus Snape, all I can think is that if Snape was ever convicted of murder and sentenced to death, his funeral should be held in a basement. I think he'd like that. He does seem fond of deep, dark and damp places if his office is anything to go by. Like a bat. Or perhaps mold.

"It is ever so good to see you again, old friend." Sherlock purred sarcastically, a malicious smirk tugging at his lips. Snape set a pair of cups full of deep, dark and damp tea in front of each of us before taking his seat behind his deep, dark and damp desk.

I shot a quick glance at Sherlock, remembering his warning from yesterday. He didn't make any indication that he noticed me, but took a sip from his cup to assure me that it wasn't spiked.

"Why are you here, Holmes?" Snape snapped, pushing past Sherlock's false pleasantries with a grimace of distaste.

Sherlock put on a mask of mock confusion. " To teach the children to defend themselves. As you had asked me to in your letter… why else?"

"I thought I made it very clear in the letter that this job wouldn't be to your liking." I chuckle into my teacup. I had read the letter. Snape tried dissuading Sherlock Bloody Holmes from taking a job by telling him there's a murder on the loose and he might die. That's like telling a child not to go to the dentist because they give you candy afterwards.

"Could be dangerous" I mutter out of the corner of my mouth. Snape stares, completely lost as we fall into a fit of stifled giggles.

"I'm hurt, Severus. Truly I am. Do you really not remember all those trips through the forbidden forest? Or our picnic under the whomping willow? Or the time we spiked dogbreath's pumpkin juice." The events are all spit out sarcastically. But I could tell that Sherlock wasn't making up the events. At some point, the two must've been friends. A lot must've changed for them to get where they are now. If I squint past the harsh tension of the current situation and blur some of the years from their faces, I could almost imagine a half pint Holmes wrecking havoc on Hogwarts with a timid Snape in tow. What could've gone so wrong between them? "Did I really give you such a fleeting impression that you've forgotten my love of danger."

"I know you have the lack of self-preservation instincts of the average gryffindor, but I never thought you'd actually be suicidal." I unconsciously tense up as Sherlock's attitude turns cold. I've seen him brushed off worse insults without a second glance. I don't understand why he'd take such offense now.

"Just because I'm not a sniveling coward like most slytherins doesn't make me any less of one." He hisses, almost accusingly. Snape looks just a little pleased with himself to have found a nerve to aim for. But his pleasure quickly plummets as he realizes he's been called a coward. Sherlock quickly locks away his anger once he realizes that he's let it out. "And just f.y.i. I've already tried suicide. Took ages to get all that blood out of my hair. Poison would've been much cleaner than diving off a hospital, now that I think about it."

A strange expression crosses Snapes face and silence descends. It looks almost like… regret. But the moment I recognize it, the flash of emotion disappears into his default expression of discomfort. "I ask again, why are you here."

"Oh, I just thought I'd have a chat. Catch up with an old schoolmate."

"I know you, Holmes. You wouldn't drag yourself and your muggle half way across the castle for a friendly chat."

"Wouldn't I, Snape? It's been a long while. Your memory might fail you. And John's not my muggle. John is John's John." If I wasn't mistaken, that sounded almost like a praise. Sometimes it's hard to tell if he actually considers me a person or just a particularly interesting sheep.

I feel like I'm standing directly between two sides of a cold war. They stare each other down as if each expecting the other to burst into flame. The tones of their voices deepen with every come back. Sherlock's descending deeper into endless velvety blackness, Snape's into a cavern of rotting bat's wings. They'll be going subsonic if this goes on much longer.

"Just answer the question." Sherlock was obviously in one of his infuriating defiant moods. If I didn't step in, this could go on for hours.

"Actually, I'd like to know too." I break the silence that Sherlock had put in place. They both shoot mildly surprised looks at me. "Despite what you think, Sherlock, I don't enjoy being dragged places without knowing where or why. Also, I don't like being ignored every time I say it."

"…What do you know of Loopy?"

"Nothing whatsoever."

"Really? You don't?"

"I haven't exactly been eager to keep in touch him."

"So you're telling me that, despite all of the rumors I've heard otherwise, the shack no longer shrieks." I think they might be speaking in some sort of code.

"God, Sherlock, this sounds like an interrogation from a bad spy movie. Has the eagle left nest?"

The conversation goes on as if I never spoke. But I didn't really expect to be heard. They're too deep into their stand off/exchange of information for a mere mortal to register on their radar. "Yes, the shrieking shack still lives up to it's name, but Remus hasn't been the cause of it for nearly a decade. You kno-"

"As always, I know more than you. In fact, you don't even know what you think you know. Well, this visit hasn't been quite as pointless as I'd expected. The tea wasn't terrible." Sherlock says, as if the tea was the only good part of the visit and even that was just not bad. It was regretfully true. He sweeps out of his seat and I put down my teacup in preparation to follow. "I'd wish you farewell, but I really don't. The best I can say honestly is I hope you'll be lying in a bed of lilies next I see you."

Just as Sherlock opens the heavy wooden door, Snape leaps out of his seat, expression a mess of offense and anger. "Sherlock." Out of shock, rather than actual desire to hear what he has to say, Sherlock pauses.

"Say my name again and I'll cut out your tongue." It's shocking, how much hatred was in his voice. All during the visit, he's been acting like he would towards Mycroft. Spiteful and uncooperative. Doing anything he could to make his opponent's life just a little harder, but not actually out to hurt them. But... The only other occasion when I've seen him that hateful was the time we dealt with a rapist. Except then, he wasn't actually speaking. Just bashing the bastard's face in.

I linger next to my chair, too many questions weighing down the air to move freely. On one hand, I want to run to Sherlock and ask him what just happened. I want to turn the corner to find him laughing deviously before he tells me the stormy pain in his voice was just an act. And if it wasn't, I want to be there to… make a cup of tea and fetch his violin or whatever you're supposed to do when you've got an emotionally distressed consulting detective.

But I'm also desperate for answers to Sherlock's past and I don't think Sherlock would actually give them to me. He's only ever spoken of his past when absolutely necessary. Serial cannibal necessary. Here I've got someone who obviously knew whatever the hell went on way back then because he caused it. But I'm afraid if he tells me, I might kill him. Eventually, an impulse makes my mind for me.

"You." I just about lunge at the paralyzed man. "I don't know what you did to deserve that and if I do, you better run like hell. Because I don't want to murder you."

"And you expect me to fear you, muggle?" He looks down on me with the same look Sherlock uses on Anderson. I feel my mouth morph into what my army buddies call 'the grim grin: omen of imminent death'.

I pull my spare magazine from the specially made gun pocket in my robes, shake out a single bullet and hold it up to his hooked nose as threating as I could. "This is what I'll kill you with when the time comes."

I drop it onto his desk and run out the door after Sherlock, hoping that he didn't get very far.

**Favourite line- half pint Holmes wrecking havoc on Hogwarts with a timid Snape in tow just gotta love all that alliteration. It's so refreshing to read. I'm so proud of that sentence.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Here's a nice long one to start off the month. It's got more of Hermione!**

* * *

As soon as we return to our rooms, Sherlock buries himself under five layers of work. He refuses to talk to me or even make direct eye contact. All I can do is sit back and watch him rifle through calenders mutter to himself over thick volumes.

I wouldn't be terribly worried because this is pretty normal behavior for him. When he's really caught up in a case, he'll block out everything else. Even me.

Except we're not on a case. Well, not really. I know he's been interested in that Black character. But we haven't been searching him out so much as waiting for him to show himself. So either the information- or lack of which- that Snape gave him has accelerated things greatly, or Sherlock's just covering up being upset.

I know it's the latter, but as I said before, there isn't anything can do because he's blocking me out.

Then there's a knock at the door. Sherlock makes no move to get it so, naturally, I do it for him. At the door, a wide eyed bushy haired girl stares up eagerly with the slightest hint of nervousness. I recognize that expression in an instant. It's the universal expression of a Sherlock fangirl about to have her heart smashed to bits.

"C-could I speak to professor Sherlock?" Behind me, another book slams shut and is thrown across the room.

" Uh... now isn't a good time."

"It'll only be a few minutes." Sherlock makes a wolf impression at another book. A very convincing one.

"It's really not a good time. He's in a... mood." To prove my point, Sherlock moodily stomps across the room and throws himself across the sofa.

"John, just let her in."

"Sherlock, I'm not going to throw this poor girl into the blazing fire that is your boredom for your own amusement." I hiss over my shoulder to the heap of consulting detective lying amongst his hoard of papers and books. He grabs a paper at the other end of the sofa with his toes and hands (or rather, foots) it to himself.

"... You do realize that's slightly offensive, right?" Sherlock says in a way that in no way implies that he's actually offended by my accidental reference to witch burning. He tosses the paper away and rolls and writhes around on the sofa like a cat in a box.

"I'm sure I can manage whatever mood he's in." She says quite confidently, probably assuming that this mood couldn't possibly be worse than his mood during class or that train incident. But she's wrong. Well, the train incident was pretty bad, but that was mostly a sulky mood. Now he's-

"Listen to the girl. Let her in! She might be interesting." Now he's demanding sacrifices. She shoots me a 'you heard the man' look and I have no choice but to sigh heavily and let her in. While she stomps triumphantly into the room, I take my seat in the only piece of furniture not drenched in Sherlock. Somehow, he had managed to occupy the desk chair as well as all three seats on the couch. He's got his legs and lower back taking up the couch, with his upper back bent over the armrest, his shoulders and neck hanging in the air and his head lying in the chair. I swear, he actually makes himself longer just to inconvenience people.

The young girl leans over Sherlock's head, which almost looks completely detached from the rest of his body. "Professor Holmes, I'd just like to start off by saying... your classes have been brilliant. I mean, who would've ever thought that the wizarding world's focus on magic could actually be a weakness."

"Oh no. School issued time-turner, new yet heavily patched bookbag, eager expression... You're one of those good students aren't you?" He groans, rolling his eyes and looking up his nose at her. "That's what I've hate about ravenclaw. They're all predominantly goody two shoes who willingly eat up all of the boring textbook knowledge that everyone is required to know but never have the guts to seek the knowledge actually worth knowing because it's been forbidden. I never thought I'd find a gryffindor _good student."_ The poor girl turns an impressive shade of red although her eyes stay impressively dry. She shuffles in embarrassed for a bit before turning on him with a unique ferocity.

"You know most professors would say something like 'thank you' after being complemented on their teaching skills. You must be one special kind of bastard to actually insult a student for daring to pay you a complement. I'll be sure never to make that mistake again." She lifts her chin comically high, meaning she has to struggle to look over her chin to see Sherlock's face. "And for your information, I've got plenty of guts to seek whatever knowledge I feel like seeking. I've had a staring contest with a basilisk for christ's sake."

His curly mop pops up from the desk chair and the length of his body straightens into a vertical position on the couch in a feat of agility that's wasted on a mundane action like sitting up. "Really? What shape was it's pupils? I've always wondered about it but I've never been able to find out. Dumbledore made such a fuss when I tried hatching one under my bed. I tried explaining that a young Basilisk wouldn't be as lethal as a full-grown beast but he just wouldn't listen to me." Lethal? He tried hatching a lethal beast in school? Typical Sherlock. The girl catches me giggling and huffs disapprovingly.

"Uh-I... don't really- I was too busy being petrified to notice." She stumbles over Sherlock's sudden burst of energy.

"You tried to hatch a-"

"I didn't try. I succeeded. But it was killed before it opened it's eyes. Such a shame. It was easy to get the toad on the egg, but it took ages to get it to stay."

"I-I never. Well... you just..." She's struck dumb, less out of shock and more out of horror. Sherlock looks mildly amused.

"Sherlock, stop toying with the girl. She looks like she's about to either faint or punch you." I cut in to hopefully keep the peace. Sherlock mutters an indignant 'fine' under his breath.

"So, what brings you here today Miss Granger? Shall I offer you a cup of tea?" He asks with three tablespoons of false sugar in his voice. I get up to make the tea Sherlock's offering.

"Oh I don't think I should stay for long. I just had something to ask you. On the train you said that dementors aren't physical beings but I saw you-." I hear as I disappear into the small kitchenette behind a revolving bookcase. I go through the calming process of filling the kettle, hanging it over the fire until it whistles, pouring the water into three cups, dipping three tea bags into the steaming water and loading them onto a tray. I push the side of the bookcase open with my foot and wait patiently as it swings wide enough for me to go through. I nearly drop the tray I'm holding when I set eyes on the scene that had unfolded in the few minutes that I was away.

The student had an old dog-eared tome open on the desk, stabbing at the page with her finger and Sherlock was standing on the other side of the desk with one hand in his hair, looking exasperated and frustrated and at least three other different -rateds.

"It's impossible! Every book in the library says so!"

"And I agree with every book in the library! It is, indeed, as you have said, completely impossible!" I've never seen two people argue so loudly about something they both agree on.

"But I saw you!"

"For the last time, YOOOU SAAAW WRONG!" His voice is roaring as load as any lion, but there's not any actual intent or cruelty so I stand back and let it play out.

"IT WASN'T ONLY ME! THERE WAS RON AND... ok Harry and your friend were passed out. BUT RON SAW YOU TOO!" Granger matched his volume, but her confidence had faltered part way through. Sherlock collapsed back into his chair with a loud grunt.

"Oh big whoop, two frightened children thought they might or might not have seen me make contact with a dementor. What does it matter to you, anyhow?" Now that the argument has settled down from yelling, I decide that it's safe to set out the tea without worrying about cups flying across the room.

"It's Harry. The dementors are everywhere at the borders of the school and reasearch can only do so much. Of course, he should be safe as long as he stays on hogwarts grounds. But..."

"Trouble always follows the boy who lived. And always will, so long as he continues to live. Thank you, John." He takes his cup with a smile and I take a seat on the sofa with mine to observe. "You're a very loyal friend, Granger. That extent of loyalty is hard to find in friends. I know I couldn't." They seem to get along very well now that the friendly shouting match is over.

"What do you call me?" I ask, mockingly offended.

"I call you John, my dear Watson. And I was using the past tense, if you failed to notice." He muttered at me over the side of his teacup. "If you're so worried, why ask me about what you know to be the impossible? Why not ask me about the patronus charm or other less impossible alternatives?"

"...You faltered. If you can't cast it very well, there isn't much chance you can teach it much better." Sherlock twitches and chews his bottom lip at the blunt statement. He whips out his wand and points in in a random direction.

"Expecto Patronum" He says in the 'proving you wrong' voice. There is a long pause that usually comes before something big and after it... nothing. He says it again. Still nothing. He tosses the wand across the room and scowls to himself."It shouldn't be that difficult. It's basically just think happy thoughts, point and shoot."

"Must be the happy thoughts bit. Have you tried your first crime scene?" Sherlock scoffs at me and I smirk back. Granger looks a little alarmed at us both.

"Crime scene?" She looks like she half expects us to be the cause of the crime scene. I'm a little disappointed that it's just half. If I were her, I'd run from the room screaming murderer by now.

"Don't worry. He's an arrogant, vain bastard. But not a criminal. Quite the opposite, actually. We catch criminals in the muggle world." I tell her as reassurance with a smile. She mouths an 'oh' of realization and nods. She turns back to Sherlock to find that he's completely zoned out and muttering something under his breath. "Oh no, he's left. You might as well go. He's not going to be back for awhile."

"Wha-what? What do you mean left? He's right here."

"He's retreated into his head. One time he left in the middle of a shower and flooded the bathroom. Took ages to clean up." I walk over to him and gently pry the half full teacup from his hand before he ends up dropping or spilling it. "And of course he was too busy chasing down some serial cannibal to help."

"Huh. I guess I really should be going." Granger heaves the heavy book off the desk and drops it into her bag. "God knows what Harry and Ron are getting up to in my absence."

"Yeah, I know that feel." I open the door for Granger as she hauls her bag onto her shoulder and heads out. As I turned back to my seat on the sofa, Sherlock leaped out of his mind palace with a yelp.

"I found it!" He searched among a pile of books and papers in a corner and fished out his wand. "John, you're brilliant. Expecto patronum." A small smoky dragon bursts from the tip of the wand and flies about the room with wings that smell of cigarettes. It's heavy and dark like a storm cloud, but there as a light like a constant flash of lightning locked between it's teeth. Sherlock watches, completely and utterly stunned as it makes a few circuits around the room and disappears in a puff of smoke.

"That. Was... That was amazing." Sherlock stares into the empty space where it disappeared. "W-wasn't it? Sherlock. Is... something wrong?"

"No. Not wrong. Just... very unexpected. I didn't get a proper look at it before and... it was supposed to be light blue..." I don't know what shaken him up so bad. I don't really see why the color might be a problem. If it's for fighting off those dementor things, I don't think it matters if it's blue or lemon yellow. But what do I know about magic?


	11. Chapter 11

This chapter is terribly johnlocky. I'm sorry, one of my dear reviewers said they'd love it if I took the Johnlock out of subtext and put into regular text. So I did. I swore to myself I'd resist the urge and keep this romance-free... but the Johnlocker inside was too strong. I hope you enjoy anyways.

If you're a non-believer and hate Johnlock. Then ski-... actually, I don't think you can skip this. It might be relevant later. I can't be sure.

* * *

As I drift off to sleep that night I dream, vividly. It's hardly a prophetic dream about what is to come or some dreadful nightmare of what might happen again, just an oddly real dream. I can't see anything, but the air feels real in my lungs and I'm almost certain that I'm buried in sheep. Sherlock crawls into the pile of sheep next to me. It vaguely occurs to me that he does so every night in this weird dream world. He wraps his eight arms around me and his forty fingers are drifting, clutching and entangling themselves where ever they can manage. A few of them tickle across my arms while others grab at my hands and one hesitantly creeps from my shoulder to my chest. I try to catch one of his hands in mine, but my arms are unresponsive. It dawns on me that I must be a mannequin. His nose buries itself in my shoulder and his feathery eyelashes brush over my neck like bird's wings.

"John. Can you hear me?" His voice is muffled in my shirt, but it's as solid and steady as ever. Even though I can feel his breathing shudder behind me and his fingers fluttering, shakily over my skin."No, don't answer. I know you can." Sherlock's voice softens in my shoulder. With a shuddering sigh, the ever present ice melts from his voice leaving an unsure, nervous quality behind.

"John, do you remember the dementor on the train? Of course you do. No one forgets a dementor. But- I got rid of it with a charm called patronus. I've... never been able to cast it... before then. And I've tried hundreds of times. It runs on a happy memory and I've tried every even remotely pleasant memory I've ever had and in every situation possible. But nothing worked. I even tried it in front of a real dementor and well..." His breath hitches and his nose buries deeper into my shoulder. One of his hands finds the pulse point of my wrist.

"I'm not telling you about that now. Or ever actually. But you'll probably find out somehow. Anyways, my point is, I had never been able to cast that spell before and I never knew why. Even as I cast it, I didn't know what I had done right. I couldn't track what I was thinking or feeling other than you were in danger and I couldn't let you- you couldn't-..." An icy diamond tear makes a snail trail down my neck.

"The other day I remembered that we were laughing just before the dementor came. Isn't it odd how that the darkest shadows always pop up after lighter moments. Anyways, I remembered what I was thinking of. It was the taxi driver case. The 'first case'. I was thinking back on the moment I saw you on the other side of the police tape... looking so ordinary and innocent after shooting that bloody taxi driver for me... Even though you had only met me that morning." His voice is barely a whisper. The silver puddle of tears forming on my pillow of wool deepens. I briefly wonder if there might be oysters at the bottom of it. Maybe I'll wake up in a bed of pearls in the morning.

"I'm afraid that I don't give you enough credit, John. I'm afraid that you think you're just a step above the skull, when you're so much more." I finally succeed in moving my hands and reach for his. It's cold when I find it. So very cold. Then again, I'd expect nothing else from a man made of marble. I drag the hand through the piles sheep's wool and over my heart, to warm it. Although, I don't know how much warmth I could give it, if I'm just a mannequin. "You're the one who gave me the ability to save someone. And you're the only one I've ever wanted to save. You're my friend and my bodyguard and doctor and blogger and morals. Even now, mostly unconcious, you are my diary. I know you don't know this, but nearly all my secrets are lying in your subconscious. Probably in your dreams. And I know I can trust you to keep them." I manage to pry one eye open when the weight distribution shifts behind me. Sherlock's looming over me. One hand still laying against my chest. Diamond clinging to his eyelashes "Do you know how I can be so certain?"

"Mmm?" He smiles so sadly. A blink dislodges the tiny gems onto his cheek. The sharp facets must be hurting him as they drag across his skin like that. But I suppose the hard marble of his skin can take it. It must be so hard to move so gracefully, with limbs made of rock.

"Because in the morning, you won't even remember I was here."

"No... Sher..." I reach out as he pulls farther away. My fingertips barely brush is shoulder before he's stand over me, folding my arm back into the cushions and pulling the heavy blankets over me.

"Shh John. My John. It's better this way. If you were fully concious, I'd be on the floor by now. Go back to sleep." He croons softly, long fingers running through my hair. I try to protest, but his voice drags me down like lead weights in the sea. My eyelids drop and my mind drifts away. "Sleep."

* * *

As day breaks in through the open window, I wipe the sleep from my eyes and pry my face from the wet spot on my pillow and stumble into the office.

"Morning Sherlock." I mutter at the violin-wielding silhouette in the window. Sherlock grunts back and raises his bow to continue his composition. Sweet and somber. It's going to be so hard to wake up this morning. I roll my shoulders and duck into the kitchenette behind the bookcase to go through the morning rountine of pouring two cups of tea.

"Do dreams have any significance to wizards? Do they... mean anything" I ask as I re-enter the room. The violin screeches to a halt as I put Sherlock's cup on the side of his desk. Sherlock's eyes widen where they were glued to the sunrise, but no other muscle on his face so much as twitches.

"Why do you ask?" He asks as his upper lip dips under the porcelain rim of the cup.

"I had a really vivid dream last night. It just made me curious, is all." I settle into one end of the sofa, relaxing into the haze of the early morning and one excellent cup of tea.

"Hm. Divination claims that dreams can predict the future..." His tone makes it clear that such claims are just as valid as horoscopes in the muggle world. I just- I just referred to the normal world as 'muggle'. Tht's so weird. He replaces his violin on his shoulder and raises the bow. "But I'd never peg you for a seer."

"If I am, then we have a lot of oysters in our future." I chuckle, wiping the moisture from my jaw. Ugh. I must've drooled in my sleep.

"Oysters." He says, his voice falling between notes of his song. "I never liked them. They're just slime in a shell."

"Well. You better get used to them. According to my all-seeing sleep sight, they'll invade the planet as we know it." I sip casually at my tea as I stare aimlessly at the moving pictures on yesterday's newspaper. I'm not sure what I find so fascinating about moving photographs. It's basically just a magical take on movies. But I those tiny waving people are just impossible to look away from.

"How long do we have, doctor?" He built up the tension on our little oyster drama with his violin.

"Judging by the reproductive rate of oysters and the current population... I'd say..." The violin shrieked to its climax. "God, I'm hungry. What do you think they have laid out for breakfast today?"

"Oysters, of course. We have to aid the combat of the invasion" We giggled all the way to the great hall.


	12. Chapter 12

I really like this chapter. I ended up having to cut it off at an awkward time because it would've been too long. So it this ended up to be a straight up 2000 words. I don't know about you, but I really like that number.

Also, there's a huge cabin pressure reference in here. So if you're a fellow member of the fandot, look out for that. If you don't know what I'm talking about, open up youtube in a new tab and look up cabin pressure. You will never stop thanking me.

* * *

Classes have been going... unusually well for the past few weeks. After the intimidation tactics Sherlock used for the first few classes, he softened up on the students a lot. He's actually a pretty good teacher. His overall knowledge may be spotty, but he's only been teaching subjects that he has extensive knowledge on. Such as how to identify, track, hunt down and take out murderous psychopaths or how to tell when someone's killed recently or how to tell when someone's operating under the guise of something called polyjuice which apparently changes people's appearance. Sherlock made me demonstrate with that one. I now know what it's like to be Sherlock Holmes. Or at least be in his body. I really enjoyed those extra six inches. It's nice to stare Sherlock straight in the eye without having to standing on a box.

The students seem to be really enjoying themselves too. Sure, they grumbled and moaned about having to get in shape during the first week, but no one complained yesterday when we were running around the forbidden forest, learning how to pick up the trail of the unusually lightfooted groundskeeper and magical creatures professor, Hagrid. And I'm not hearing any complaining today as I listen to him recount one of our adventures to the class. Sherlock had intended to do a course on mud and dirt but half way through his introduction speech, someone asked how this could possibly help anyone in any situation whatsoever and Sherlock redirected this class into storytime.

All I have to say is at least it isn't tobacco ash.

"Everyone was certain that the thief was some stupid teenager. But the samples of dried mud taken from the scene said otherwise. You see, it was not one singular specimen, but several all mixed together. Now, this in itself is pretty ordinary, as people tend to pick up mud from several places around the city in a day." His retelling of the stories are much drier than how I remember it. To collect that information we had spent four days undercover in an airport. He was a pilot by the name of Martin Crieff with a fake I.D. and, I assume, no experience or knowledge of how to fly planes. He insisted I pose as a female flight attendant called Martha because we'd get more information that way. Also, I just couldn't argue with him while he was in that uniform.

"I knew this because there were sand particles mixed with river mud and several bits of foliage that wouldn't usually grow within the same climate. This could only have occured in one way. Which is that the boots, size 10 1/2 faux leather combat style boots, that had tracked the mud into the house had collected it from several locations not just across the city, but across countries." Countries that I distinctly remember screaming like a schoolgirl at as they rushed towards the plane much too quickly for my liking.

"So after a few months of investigation and evidence collection, we found that the thief was not, as previously thought, a teenager and was actually a travelling journalist who had been stealing women's underthings from Abu Dhabi to Zurich for thirty years straight and had never been caught. You know why?" Because most scotland yard detectives don't enjoy getting their skirt-clad arse grabbed by a suspected serial panty thief as the hurdle through turbulence miles above the himalayas in a metal cylinder driven by a bored Sherlock Holmes. "Because everyone assumed the mud didn't matter. Any more questions?" A red haired kid in gryffindor raises his hand.

"How do we know you're not lying? We had a teacher last year that strutted around and told us about all the amazing things he did. But they were all lies. How do we know you're not the same?" He asks, wearing the same face as Donovan would make when she said something that she hoped would stump the great detective. Granger, who was sitting next to him, rolled her eyes audibly. She had become the only tolerable member of the small but frightfully dedicated League of Sherlock Holmes Fangirls. She had never declared her undying love for the bastard or officially join any fanclub, thankfully. She even declared that they were silly because they obsess over things that really don't matter. But whenever she'd stay behind to help clean up after a particularly messy demonstration or turn up at our door with questions on oriental matial arts and how to disguise one's voice while under a polyjuice potion, she always looked at him with all awe and admiration of any fangirl.

"Oh, right. I nearly forgot that you had Potions before this class. He's probably been talking against me whenever he can so you come in here with that doubt planted in your heads. Although, I don't know why _you'd_ believe him. You're obviously not very fond of him." He walks down the gryffindor side of the room then down one of the isles to face the questioner.

"but if you want proof, I'll give you proof." He leans over the frightened boy, whispering something only they could hear. I watched the boy's eyes widen and his face redden in what was either embarrassment or anger. I couldn't really tell from this distance. But from the context, Sherlock is probably revealing something deeply embarrassing about his life and had found the mercy in his heart not to spout it off in front of the whole class. He straightened and smiled smugly.

"Understand now, Weasley?"Weasley's head wobbled about on his neck like it'd fall off. "Good. Now. Back to dirt and mud. On the chart pinned to the wall on your left, there is a diagram of the unique qualities of mud and dirt from all over the school grounds. I want all the Slytherins to take off your right shoes, leave it on the table in front of you and stand. Then Gryffindors, take off your left shoes-"

"All Gryffindors shoes are left shoes." One of them snickered quite loudly.

"Ten points from Slytherin for interrupting. Five for the insult. Another two for being clumsy about it and a final three because you haven't taken off your shoe yet." He didn't take off house points often, but when he did he made a game out of it. The blonde boy turned blonder somehow while his face reddened at the glares he was getting from his housemates.

"But-" Sherlock had outlawed the use of the word 'but' in this classroom.

"Five points from Slytherin." By then, the boy behind him had clapped a hand over his mouth before he could say another but.

"Now as I was saying. Gryffindors, take off your left shoes, leave them on the table in front of you and move to a spot on the Slytherin side of the room. Slytherins, find a spot on the Gryffindor side. If any student is missing a shoe at the end of class, I will know who took it. So don't try me Slytherins. I don't think you want to lose anymore points for today. John, give me your shoe."

* * *

"That was a bad idea." I comment after the students had pulled their shoes on and dragged themselves out of class like they have weights on their necks. "They were all bored out of their minds. I don't think any of them understood a thing. Even Granger was hopelessly lost."

"Mm." He grunts in a broody sort of agreement. "I don't understand. I explained it clearly enough. I even showed how applies. But still..."

"You can't force them to want to learn about the composition of mud, Sherlock."

"But it's incredibly important. I've solved hundreds of cases by just examining mud composition." He makes it sound like he's baffled how people get by without knowing where the dirt on their shoes came from. Although I remember being just as baffled when I realized he didn't know about the solar system.

"That's you and your work. Most people just can't see mud as important. Even if you did succeed in teaching them how to identify dirt, they probably would never find a way to apply it to their real lives. Unless they go into gardening." I explain carefully, sweeping some of the stray dirt off the tables.

"But-"

"Five points." I jokingly bark his own rules at him. He groans and scowls at me from his desk, where he's picking at the bottom of my shoe with his wand. "Very few of these kids are going to go into law enforcement. And I know for a fact that none of them will grow up to be great consulting detectives. Yes, half your work is being able to differentiate one type of tobacco ash from another and knowing what mud comes from where. But you can't teach that to the kids because they're not you. They're not wired to pick out details like you are. To them, mud is just mud."He sighs hugely at tosses my shoe at me.

"I suppose you're... not entirely wrong." It's the closest he'll get to admitting I'm right about something. Like the last time he sincerely called lestrade smart, he said 'occasionally not as much of an idiot as most people are'. "I suppose I should also change tomorrow's lesson plan from dog and cat hair to... I don't know..."

"How about a lesson in how to run from something that's trying to kill you." I suggest, remembering all the times I would've died out on a chase if it hadn't been for my military training.

"I've already got two weeks planned out for that after the hogsmeade trip. It'll be split into small animals, packs of small animals, large animals, packs of large animals, people and mobs." I'm impressed how much thought he put into it. I always assumed he was just winging the lesson plan. Considering how spur of the moment most of he classes feel and how he never assigns essays or anything out of a textbook so he never had any grading to do. "Maybe I'll just do another run in tracking. They could use some extra practice with that."

"Mm. Now that we've got that sorted, what time is it? I'm starved."

"Just about time for dinner, but I don't particularly feel like being gawked at in the great hall. Lets just pick something up from the kitchens." I sigh in resignation. The kitchens always creep me out. Those weird elf things always seemed too... eager.

"Or... You could pick something up at the kitchens and bring it to the office..." I suggest, without much hope that he'd be that gracious.

"I'm not the one that has to eat and I'm not your delivery boy. If you want food, get it yourself." I knew it. "You do have to eat, Sherlock. Everyone has t-" I start up the old food lecture again. I know he never really listens, but I have to try anyways.

"Yes yes, If it'll get you to shut up, I'll get dinner." Sometimes I get my way in the oddest way possible.

* * *

Someone knocks at the door as I wait for Sherlock to deliver the food. I know it couldn't be Sherlock because he wouldn't knock. It is his office after all. I'm not sure who else it could be. Maybe another Professor here to make pleasantries?

I open the door to find a rather peeved looking Granger at the standing behind it. Her anger dissipates a little when she sees me standing in the door.

"Where's Professor Holmes?" She practically demands, looking like she's about to murder small animals. My stomach drops when I think of what Sherlock must've done to make her this angry. Putting him in a building with hundreds of children was never a good idea. Like putting a rhino in a china shop. I'm surprised there haven't been more casualties thus far.

"What'd he do this time?"


	13. Chapter 13

_Sorry this took so long. And it really isn't much. But it was necessary and by god, I finally finished it._

_The next chapter will be much more interesting, I swear. Then the chase really begins._

_Also, whatdya think about that trailer? ** JUST THE TWO OF US AGAINST THE REST OF THE WORLD!**_

* * *

"What has he done this time?"

"He said... He said that... -Of course it isn't true bu-... could you just tell me when he'll be back?" She sputtered, her anger dissolving into exasperated frustration.

"Should be just a few minutes." Knowing his sense of dramatic timing, he's probably just around the corner. "Do you... want to come in and wait? It'd be more comfortable than just leaning against the wall."

"Sure. Yes. Thank you." She shuffles in, red-faced and fidgety, and takes a seat on the sofa. We sit in silence for what feels like ages. Although, I can practically hear her head buzzing with nerves as her eyes dart around the room and the pads of her finger tap incessantly on the arm of the sofa.

"Why are you here?" She asks so suddenly she seems to have surprised herself. "Oh I-uh didn't mean to be rude, I just... You're obviously a muggle. And this is a wizarding school."

"Sherlock just said 'Pack your things we're leaving tomorrow' and here we are." I decide to go with the shorter version which involves less punching.

"...I don't understand." Well, that makes two of us. 'I don't understand' could very well be the title of my autobiography. My coat of arms would be a gun and scalpel crossed over a background of blue with the words 'I don't understand' scrawled elegantly on one of those scrolls underneath. "A man just walks up to your door saying you're going someplace and you just go? No questions asked?"

"Oh, there were plenty of questions. He didn't really answer half of them. But there were definitely questions asked." I sigh tensely at the memory of his half answers that only make sense now that I'm here. "And he didn't just walk up to my door, considering his door is also my door. I mean the door is part of the flat that we both share. It'd be pretty ridiculous of him to walk outside just to knock on his own door."

"Oh?... OH." She eyes shot open and her face turned a definitive shade of pink as a realization dawned on her. Almost certainly THE realization that everyone comes to when I say 'we live together' and is, was and always will be wrong. "

I didn't realize you two are-"

"No. You didn't. Because we're not. Neither of us are. Everyone assumes we are, but we are just live together. He drags me around to his crime scenes and leaves rotting... food in the fridge and I occasionally have to force him to eat and keep him from getting himself killed and such and that's it." As I finish, Sherlock glides into the room with a large tray of food balanced artfully on his left hand.

"Still on about that, John? You do realize that it doesn't matter what you say. It's only obvious that people to assume that two attractive men who live together are _together._ Besides, they're all idiots, so who cares either way?" He set the tray onto a more or less stable stack of books on the coffee table and took a seat on the sofa. Sherlock, being Sherlock, doesn't really under stand the merits of being accepted for what you are. I mean, sure, it's reassuring to know that if I was gay, which I'm not, people would be more that happy to accept that. But then everyone's disbelief that I am actually straight just wears at my nerves. Sherlock's complete ignorance frustrates me almost as much as being constantly mistaken for gay.

"Two attractive men?" I asked, slightly surprised that he'd describe me as attractive. Unless, there's another tenant of 221 baker street that I'm unaware of. He could easily be talking about the skull. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at me.

"John, in all seriousness, if you don't find me objectively attractive then I must suggest you get your eyes checked." He says, an expression of worry crossing his face as if he's actually worried that my eyesight might be failing. "Are you hungry, Granger? I'd hate to be the cause of you missing a meal. And you know how the elves have a tendency to give out more food than one could possibly eat."

"Uh, no. I'm here to talk to you about-"

"What I said to Weasley. Yes, I was expecting you to come around. But I admit, I didn't expect you to be here so soon." He says as he calmly nibbles a corner of a sandwich and amusedly watches Granger sputter. I take a fragrant muffin from the pile and dig in, eagerly.

"Yeah well- uh... I just wanted to say, you're wrong. Very wrong. Y-you don't even know what your talking about."

Sherlock turns to me. "John, in all the years that you've known me, how many times have ever been wrong?" I thought on it as I reached for another muffin.

"Well... First there was my sister... Then when you said Moriarty was gay. Baskerville- I think that counts as two. And then on the rooftop when you told me you were a fake. Which brings the total up to five." I'm sure there were smaller incidents in between, but those probably involved social conduct and I'm a little tired of calling him out on that. He doesn't actually care about those anyway.

"Wrong. Moriarty was gay, I was only wrong once in Baskerville and I only said I was a fake to save your life. Which brings the count down to two." He combats my initial count, shooting a pointed look at Granger. I could hardly be blamed for getting Moriarty wrong. He's so psychotic, you can't tell if anything about him is actually real.

"So what's the likeliness I'm wrong no-" I cut him off before he can finish, Wait, no. I'm not done yet! You were wrong twice in Baskerville. You were wrong about the sugar and you said there was a hound. That makes three. Saving my life or not, you were still wrong. More wrong than you've ever been before. That brings it up to four. And you were just now wrong about me being wrong. Making five."

"Uh-... I'm not sure this really mat-" Hermione chirped from what might as well have been the other side of the planet. "But there actually was a hound! Two! Sure, the hound was smaller than we expected and the other H.O.U.N.D. was a chemical which made us think that the hound was The Hound. but it counts!" Sherlock rolls over her as if she doesn't exist. Sure, there was a hound which was thought was The Hound because of the H.O.U.N.D, but before we knew that, he was convinced that it was The Hound. Which makes him wrong.

Then I decide that working with so many 'hounds' is just too much work, even to prove Sherlock wrong. "Fine. You were only wrong four times." I concede, putting an end to the argument.

"Good. Well. My point was, even John admits that I've only been wrong a handful of times in the years that he's lived with me. What are the chances that I was wrong yesterday?" He said, turning his focus back to Granger.

"Wait wait, I'm not sure I understand what's going on here."

"Ahh, it has been awhile since I've last heard that. It is indeed refreshing to be reminded of your blinding ignorance every once and awhile." He drawled with his customary condescension, picking the skin off a grape. "Our young friend here is in denial."

"I'm not denying anything!... There's nothing for me to deny!... Because you're wrong!" She declared, adding more proof of how much she wasn't denying whatever she was denying to deny. Either way it didn't help me understand anything.

"Ok. The most I have a grasp of is that Sherlock said something terrible."

"Yeah, he told Ron in class tha-"

"Please, you're bound to tell it inaccurately. You heard it secondhand, while I'm the one who actually sai-" "Just get on with it!" I groaned around a mouthful of a really wonderful ham sandwich.

"When Weasley's doubt of me became apparent annoying I told him that 'I know you're not suspicious of me because I might be like that idiot Lockhart. You're suspicious because you're afraid that a certain bushy haired, bucktoothed, bookish girl you fancy might be too distacted by me to notice you pointedly pretending you're not enamoured.' to prove him wrong. Also, I thought it might put an end to the romantic drama stinking up the place when ever they entered the room." He explained calmly, while Granger looked like she was trying to choose between sinking into the floor and turning Sherlock into a toad. I managed to shoot a sympathetic smile at her and a exasperated glare at Sherlock simultaneously.

Right then, I gave up. I got from my chair, picked up a sandwich and another two muffins, and retreated to the bedroom. If Sherlock wants to butt his nose into schoolyard drama, then fine. But I sure as hell am not going to get involved with a 'who has a crush on who' scandal.


	14. Chapter 14 part 1

_Guess who figured out how to upload documents from her tablet to her computer! This gal! I've had trouble with that for ages. For some reason I can't upload documents straight to on my tablet. And I like typing on my tablet because it's feels so... star trek. So, after a huge ordeal involving my laptop, tablet and phone and more apps than necessary I realized I can just email it to myself as an attachment, upload it to my computer which has Word, spell check, upload to and voila! You all have the new chapter!_

_**This chapter is a bit of a two parter. It was looking to get ridiculously long so I cut it off. The bright side is, I've got part of the next chapter pre-written!**_

* * *

Halloween's around the corner and the school's been buzzing with anticipation for it. The wizarding world views Halloween as a sort of... second Christmas. Except with less gift giving. Basically the school gets a few days off, we eat a gigantic feast, and the students are set loose into a nearby town. It's a pretty big deal. I've heard the students talk about their plans and I must say, I'm actually pretty excited.

Sherlock is too, but only because the castle is practically deserted during the festivities and thus, free of annoyances.

Sherlock's been slacking on his classes lately. Partly because he knows that this close to a holiday no one's going to be able to focus, partly because he's getting lazy and partly because he had previously planned to do 'dirt and mud' type lessons and I wouldn't let him. They're obviously bullshit lessons and all of the students knew it. But no one really cares.

Most of his classes have been a sort of boot camp for the children. He'd take them all out into a denser part the forbidden forest, set loose a bunch of flying, glowing balls and tell them they have ten minutes to grab one and whoever comes back empty handed has to do fifty pushups. Then, once the ten minutes were up and the pushups were done, he'd take them to some place with damper ground, or slippery rocks, or steep hills and have them do it again. Once he took them to an empty field. The students thought they were getting a break. Turns out he planted land mines beforehand. They didn't hurt the runners, just surprised them a bit. Needless to say, they've learned to get very good at running in rough terrain.

Other days have just been Sherlock telling stories of different encounters with various types of dark magic. Mostly from other people's writings but he talked about some of his own experiences and some of the students even pitched in with their own unfortunate run-ins.

There was one point when one of the students piped up with "What about Harry? I bet he's got a lot to say."

Sherlock sighed "I believe we're all very aware of Potter's extraordinarily bad luck. Unless he'd like to expand on any of his experiences? No. Thought so. Let's move on."

Later, Sherlock told me of the poor boy's childhood and his previous years at Hogwarts. If it wasn't Sherlock telling me, there would've been no way I'd believe that one kid could be so terribly unfortunate and still be living. I've been finding myself unconsciously keeping a watchful eye on him when I see him in the great hall or in class, half expecting a dragon to burst from the walls and attack him. Seriously though. He's the target of a serial killer.

Anyways, Sherlock's classes have been steadily declining in new material as we approached the Halloween break. Yesterday, we had a lesson on patience. Meaning Sherlock laid on the floor for the entire hour and took off house points every time he heard anything make any sort of noise. The ravenclaws lost 30 points that day.

I'm really curious how the classes for the next few days could possibly be less educative than yesterday's. Maybe he'll just not appear at all.

"Alright, Let's go. Our lateness is beginning to surpass 'fashionable'." He announced as he emerged from the bedroom, dressed, oddly enough, in his coat and scarf.

"Wha- why are you-"

"No time to talk. Get in there and change into one of those terrible jumpers you're so fond of." He said, elbowing the door ajar and flopping onto the couch as if he's expecting me to take a while. I shrug and take up my one opportunity to dress comfortably. Robes may look fantastic on Sherlock and I'm sure they feel perfectly natural to him. But on me they're just... heavy. And they make me feel small. Like a kid wearing their dad's coat.

I'm practically glowing when I walk back into the office. It feels like ages since I've last worn jeans.

Within seconds of my opening the door, Sherlock leaps up from his place on the sofa and drags me off through the hallway. "Hurry up, John. We'll be late."

"You know, you say that every time but- oh never mind." Knowing him, he deliberately plans to be late for dramatic effect. Or he just likes having a reason to dart through the halls like a wet cat. "Could you just tell me what the normal clothes are for?"

"Do you remember last halloween?" He sighs, as if my ignorance is _Such_ a burden on him. Poor Sherlock. Having to explain things to ordinary people.

"Uh... Yeah. Wasn't that when you insisted on going to crime scenes dressed up as a wiza- Oh!" I don't know how I missed how high-quality his 'costumes' always were. Or how he been dressed up as a wizard every year, yet his costumes were always different. I don't know how I failed to make the connection even after he told me he's actually a bloody wizard.

"Every halloween that I've spent in the muggle world, I indulged myself in dressing in my old robes for a week because they're really the only thing I miss from my wizarding years and I could get away with it on halloween. I thought dressing in muggle clothes while I'm back in the magical world might add a nice sense of symmetry to my life." He explains, popping his collar up against his neck and pulling his coat tighter around him, like a swan preening. "The magical world may not have adopted the custom of dressing in costume. But I've missed dressing normally more than I expected to."

Our pace slowed to a brisk walk when Sherlock either decided we were less late than he had thought or he just doesn't care about how late we are anymore. "Sherlock? Can I ask you something?"

"Asking me if you can ask me something is indeed asking me something. So, I'd assume so." He drawled, oozing with smugness.

I roll my eyes at him and he smirks back at me. "Why did you leave... this? You said witches and wizards and things had their own world and all of it's based around magic and spells and potions. Why would you choose to leave all of that for the ordinary world?"

"I got bored." Sherlock is possibly the only person who can get bored of all of this. Moving portraits? I can see a movie any day. Unicorns? Pfft. Anyone could put a horn on a horse. Just transformed into a cat? Couldn't manage a dragon, eh?

"Bored? Of magic?"

He clears his throat. "Yes. Tremendously bored. All there is here is magic, you see. It's all anyone cares about. Are you magic? Are your parents magic? Both of them? How good at magic are you? Which kind? Even the murders are incredibly boring. The cause is always 'by magic' and the motive is always 'because they weren't magic enough'. I decided I had learned everything I needed to my fifth year in school, left as soon as I could and never once looked back." To highlight his point, he yawns. I'm not sure I understand his point, but then again I don't really understand magic.

In minutes, we're standing in front of the doors of Sherlock's classroom. He hesitates for just a few seconds and turns to me.

"You might have already caught on to this, but I'll say it anyways." A daring smirk crossed his face. "This- dressing like muggles in front of a class of wizards- is incredibly dangerous." I grinned back and threw open the doors without another word.

I've already caught on that some wizards- well a lot of wizards, worryingly enough- are extremely racist against the non-magical. Even wizards born from muggles or have one muggle parent are discriminated against. The ones who aren't outright spiteful look down on muggles as lesser being. Frankly, I don't know which is worse. I was incredibly lucky that only three people caught on thus far that I'm not a wizard. Two of those three are nice kids who don't care much and one is Snape. I'm not worried about what he thinks because he's an enemy of Sherlock's and his opinions don't count. Others may be suspicious that I'm not quite right, but telling everyone that I'm a muggle might bring up some problems. But if this is part of Sherlock's plan, I just have to trust him not to get me killed or something.

I flash my battle smile at the gawking class as I struggle to keep up with Sherlock's long-legged strut. We've got hufflepuff and ravenclaw today, which have always seemed like the milder of the four houses. Slytherin is generally sly and backstabbing if you get on their bad side. Then sly and manipulative if you're on their good side. Gryffindor as a whole reminds me a bit of one of my old girlfriends. Fiery, loud and quite passionate in her beliefs. She was great until I had to break up with her when she tried forcing me to move in with her by burning down 221b with Sherlock inside. She still sends us letters and drawings every now and then from prison. Her Christmas cards are especially lovely.

Anyways, as Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw are more reserved than the other two houses, so their reactions to our entrance is mainly just gasps and whispers. Most of them look mainly confused, some of them giggle at the absurdity, some look outright offended, and one girl sitting in a corner smiles vaguely at us. I'm not sure what her smile could mean, though.

Sherlock takes his place at the podium and I take a seat at his desk, putting myself to work grading the papers that Sherlock has outright refused to do himself. They're too dull and boring for him. He doesn't know how professors can put up with reading hundreds of nearly identical papers all about things they already know. So he almost never assigns written homework. His assignments are usually something like 'Conjure up a sack of potatoes and carry it a mile. This must be executed in one go.' or 'Break into a common room that is not your own by whatever means you find convenient.' or 'Insult professor Snape using the words 'napkin', 'olive' or 'trousers'. I'll know if you don't so don't try weaseling out of it.'

"Today, I have a brief lesson in muggle weaponry and defense planned. I understand that some of you are indeed taking the muggle studies class. But what you must understand is that muggle studies is utter bullshit. As you have already noticed, John and I are dressed as muggles. What you probably have not noticed is the fact that I myself have spent the last 13 years as a muggle and John had been a muggle all his life. You may be thinking a lesson about muggles has no place in a class about defending one's self from the darker magics, and you may be right about that. But nonetheless, this in an important lesson which you'll need to learn if you want to be any less ignorant than your predecessors. Any questions?"

I'm sure many people had very strong opinions, but no one spoke up.


	15. Chapter 14 part 2

_I'm sure many people had very strong opinions, but no one spoke up._

* * *

"Right, the majority of my time in the muggle world was spent chasing down murderers, thieves, kidnappers, and various other heinous criminals. Something I've learned about the criminal side of the muggle world is that they can be much more... creative in their methods of murder and torture and the like. The main reason being they have more methods to choose from. In the wizarding world, if someone wanted to kill someone effectively, they cast a killing curse and that's all there is to it. In the muggle world, you can choose to poison, stab, strangle, or shoot and each method could be just as effective as the others, depending on the circumstances. Once I caught a woman who killed all her husband's lovers with rose thorns. Fascinating case, elegant execution but not very challenging. She obviously didn't care if she was caught. Practically left a signed confession on the bodies. Actually, she did. She took a piece of skin from the forearm and carv-" Oh god. He's going on a gory tangent in front of children. I should have seen it coming when he started to mention the baker's dozen lovers case. I guess I must've been too caught up in these papers to catch it in time.

"Sherlock. Children." I remind him, wearing my 'bit not good' face.

"Oh?" His head shifted half an inch in my direction. "They can't be that squeamish. I'm not even telling the detai-" He tries to protest, but I'll have none of it.

"I told you, no murder cases in class. Not after you made that first year girl vomit." Sherlock's shoulders descend fractionally, signifying his defeat. I smirk to myself and turn back to the stack of scrolls I've been grading. Sherlock had them write 14 inches on their experience of breaking into a house common room that wasn't their own. It's really interesting to read about their different tactics to get around the magical defenses. Some of them managed to break in through windows, a few bribed people from a different house to just leave the door open and one Hufflepuff who was handy with sewing remade her uniform into a Slytherin's so they wouldn't notice when she followed another group inside. She wrote that she wishes she chose a different common room as the Slytherin dungeon is apparently really scary.

"Anyways, my point was that a muggle's methods of fighting is infinitely more unpredictable than any witch or wizard's and in the event of getting into a fight in their world, it's important to understand those differences. The first and most obvious are the preference in weapons. If someone threatens you or pisses any of you off, the first thing you do is reach for your wand. It's the most convenient and effective weapon you own." There's an audible eyeroll in his words, as if the entirity of magic society had a collective brain fart when they invented the wand. A thin stick that can create or destroy anything with just a flick of the wrist? How boring. I smirk and watch him walk out from behind his podium and up in front of it.

"Muggles have a vast assortment of weapons ranging from their bare hands to nuclear missiles. Today, we'll be doing a quick overview of the more casual forms of muggle weaponry. And we'll be starting with the bare hand." He thrust his hand out in front of him, rolled up into a fist. A ravenclaw raised his hand.

"No disrespect, but what is the point of all this? I'm in muggle studies and the textbook clearly states that muggles are all helpless against magic, and thu-" Sherlock stretches his neck and puffs out his chest in that peacockish way he does when he's irritated before he cuts the student off mid-sentence.

"John! We'll be needing another demonstration. Toss my wand this way and take your position on the white X." I sigh wearily and haul myself away from the stack of papers, picking up a nearby stick thing at throwing it at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, how many times do I have to beat the crap out of you before you realize this isn't a good idea?" I take my place at the white X. "You know I don't actually enjoy beating you up, right? All that stuff about wanting to punch your teeth out is just at joke between me and lestrade."

"Of course." Sherlock smirks at me as he crosses the room to the white X at the opposite end of the room. He whips the wand through the air and strikes an offensive pose. I take a slightly defensive position. Making it easy for me to dodge anything he throws at me, but making it clear that I have no intention of attacking.

"I'm not falling for it this time, Sherlock. Nothing you say is going to make me fight you today."

That slappably smug smirk twitches upwards as he flicks his wand and I find myself staring straight down the gaping throat of a five foot long snake. I dive to the side as it hits the ground, scrambling to get my feet out of the way when it lunges. Eventually, I manage to get its head trapped firmly in my hand. It wriggles in my grasp and wraps its body around my hand, but I don't let go. I pry as much of it off of me as I can and hurl it against a wall. While it's disoriented, I grab a jackknife from the wall, causing the stack of papers it was holding up to flutter to the floor, and fling it at the quickly approaching snake. The knife kills it with a sickening crack.

A slow clapping breaks the gasps and stunned whispers in the room. "Admirable work, John. Couldn't have done better myself." He drawls through his cat-like smirk, flicking his wand at the snake corpse pinned to the floor and causing it to vanish. I stomped out of the room to keep myself from punching that bastards lights out. "Any questions? No? Good. Now, the bare hand. I could spend a full week on various forms of muggle hand to hand combat, but as we don't have the time or attention spans, all I'll say is 'Muscle doesn't necessarily equal strength'. A three hundred pound beefcake who lifts weights every day could very well have not even the slightest idea how to use the muscles-" And that was all I heard as I slammed my door on the way out.

* * *

We had a fight. Of course. I won't let him hurl a magical snake at me for his own entertainment without a good fight. My point was obvious. Friends don't fling live snakes at friends. His point was slightly more obscure and completely insane. He claimed he had done nothing wrong and I was over reacting because I was in no 'actual' danger. Although, my cardiologist would definitely disagree. But, being the stubborn ass he is, he refused to admit he did anything wrong. In fact, he got bored of fighting after a few minutes and refused to do it. So most of the fight was me arguing at a practically comatose Sherlock until I got frustrated and made tea.

And now I'm drinking that tea while intently watching the clouds pass through the window. Pointedly slurping my tea in the way I know irritates Sherlock.

A knock at the door breaks the tense post-fight silence. A firm knock. Probably a professor.

"Sherlock, could you get-" I find that he had slipped into his mind palace during the silence. I sigh, resisting the urge to pour the near-scalding liquid over his head, and pull the door open.

"Aren't you a clever kitty! Opening the door all by yourself. Isn't that just adorable." At the door is a bespectacled, bearded old wizard with eyes made of glitter. I recognize him immediately as the headmaster Dumbledore and smile past my discomfort at his pet talk. Just play along with the game, Watson. It's just a game. "Is Holmes in? Or did he run off and leave his pretty kitty all alone in the big bad world?" He cooed at me.

"Yeah... well." How do you explain when someone's physically awake and in the room but mentally dead to the world? "He's... not really."

Dumbledore nods in understanding. "Ah. Would you mind terribly if I wait for him?" He says, as if he's already walked in and taken a seat. "There's quite a bit for us to... discuss." There is the slightest edge to his voice, as well as a tinge of disappointment. Well, whatever it is, it's Sherlock's problem. I shrug and allow him to step inside.

"Ah. Such a lovely view from this side of the castle." He sighs, glancing out the window. I nod and smile as I lift Sherlock's feet from the end of the sofa, take a seat where they used to be and let his feet fall into my lap. Dumbledore sits back in the armchair. We spend a long moment just staring at Sherlock, waiting for him to snap out of his mind palace. It looks a bit like he's trying to solve a sudoku puzzle on the ceiling.

"He use to be much worse, you know." Worse? I've never really seen this as one of his bad qualities. Just a bit annoying and disorienting. Sometimes he'll zone out in a doorway and act as a roadblock."Back when he was in school, his eyes would go blank and wide and his jaw would go slack. He felt dead. It terrified all of us because you could see in his eyes that he was trapped in there. Lost in his own head. I always hoped he might find some relief in the muggle world..." He turned back to me and the melacholic nostalgia faded from the air. "So how long have you-"

"We just live together. Back in the muggle world. We're not like... that." Dumbledore smiled knowingly at me. Amused, but unconvinced.

"That's fine. But I was about to ask 'how long have you known him'." I grimace at my mistake and he chuckles lightheartedly.

"Uh... that depends actually. I met him... five years ago? But there was a few years in between when I didn't know he was alive. I didn't even know he was a wizard until he dragged me out here. To tell the truth, I can't be sure if I actually know him now." I feel oddly at ease with the old man. He knew Sherlock when he was_ worse_ and doesn't hate his guts, so he must be an alright guy.

"Knowing how much Sherlock despises ignorance, you must know him fairly well." The thing about Sherlock is that the more you think you know, the more there is to learn. As soon as I felt that I knew his true nature as a crime-solving machine, he leaps off a hospital with a phone in one hand and the other reaching out for me. The second I begin to allow myself to accept his death, he turns up on my doorstep. Once I feel like I understand him as a human being, he reveals he's actually a wizard. In some ways I think I knew him best before he told me his name. "For awhile, I was afraid he had kidnapped a muggle off the street for some game of his."

"Do you really think so little of me?" He said, twiddling his toes in my lap.

"Oh. Look who's returned from the dead. Could you kindly get your feet off me?"

"You're the one who decided to sit under them." He mumbled, heaving himself into an upright position with a groan that would have impressed an octogenarian giant.

"To tell the truth, yes. I didn't expect much of you when you arrived. For all I know, you could be exactly the same boy who left these grounds 20 years ago. Or worse." Dumbledore answered his question, solemnly.

"And you decided to allow me to care for children for a year. Have you gone senile or have you always been insane and I just failed to notice." Sherlock showed no sign of actually meaning offense and Dumbledore showed no sign of taking any.

"I expected the worst and hoped for the best. Luckily for all of us, I'm not quite the old fool I expected to be in giving you this position. But even so you-" Sherlock cuts him off just as he starts to get into a reprimanding speech.

"I'm not apologizing, if that's what you're here for." Sherlock growled, defiantly.

"I'm not. I'm here to warn you. What you did today was dangerous. More dangerous than you realize." Sherlock slouches back into the sofa, rolling his eyes so hard you could swear he turned into an abnormally tall teenager. This must be about the snake incident in class. Finally, another person on my side! "I told you to keep your 'cat's' identity a secret for a reason. I can't have you dragging an innocent muggle into wizard affairs like this." Oh. It's about the clothes.

"Oh this is just stupid. This is a school. Full of children. I believe our chances of being lynched are quite low."

"Those children have parents. Some of which are known death eaters. Once they get word, there's no telling-" They argue as if I'm not here. But from the sound of things, it's all about 'wizarding affairs' that I won't really understand.

"Which makes it all the more important that the children be taught that their parents are wrong! If every generation of wizards are allowed to cling to the previous generation's fallacies, the wizarding world will always be infested with this racism." Sherlock seems to be pretty big on activism for someone who has lived in a different world for decades.

"Yes, that's all true. But that aside, this isn't his fight. I can't let you push him into our battles for your own causes. I shouldn't have even let you bring him here. I think it's best if he leave before any more damage is caused." The room goes cold. Leave? I don't want to leave. I've only just gotten the hang of navigating the castle! I haven't seen half of it yet. But... I don't even know why Sherlock brought me here in the first place. God knows, I'm out of place here. Just a few hours ago, I had a magical snake thrown at me.

"No." The entire room shifts at the word. "He's not leaving without me. Or rather, I'm not staying without him. So unless you want to hire the werewolf, a.k.a. the murderer's best friend, John's not going anywhere."

"Actually... Sherlock." A look of horror crosses his face. Slowly, Sherlock turns to me. "I'm not sure I should've ever come."

"No." He breathes. "You really think we shou-"

"Not we. Me. I know you won't actually leave, you still have a murderer to catch."

"John. Please." Oh god. He looks like I've betrayed him. Like I've just handed him over to Moriarty. Maybe I should take it back. "Please don't. If this about the snake, I swear I-"

"Sherlock, it's not the snake. Well it is, but it's also the robes and the moving portraits and the feeling that any given 12 year old knows more about all of this than I do. I don't belong in your world. I think I should go back to mine."

"You think this is _my _world? I told you I left for a reason. Every dark corner of this blasted castle contains bad memories. Every portrait's stare is just another reminder of how much I don't belong here. I can do magic, but I was never a wizard. Don't leave me to be the only non-wizard in Hogwarts. Please." I just can't say no now. He said please twice. Twice! Not only would he be the only non-wizard, he's also _Sherlock._ The man who could hide in empty white room but couldn't blend in if his life depended on it.

"I-I need to think about it."

* * *

I'm getting a little sick, so to cheer myself up, the next chapter will be sickeningly johnlocky. I'm honestly thinking of having them kiss. That is, if I haven't done it in this chapter already. This note was/is being written before I wrote/will write the end of the chapter, so things are/were awkward. I feel a bit like a time traveler that way. Don't ask me how.

By the way, Dumbledore snuck out of the room while Sherlock and John where caught up with each other.


End file.
